THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 

FOR  THE 
ENGLISH  READING  ROOM 


V/\ 


Me '. 


ENGLISH  READING  ROOM 


THE  WRITINGS  OF 

PROSPER  MERIMEE 

COMPRISING  HIS 

NOVELS,  TALES,  AND  LETTERS  TO  AN  UNKNOWN 

WITH 

An  Essay  on  the  Genius  and  Achievement  of  the  Author 
BY  GEORGE  SAINTSBURY,  M.A. 


COMPLETE    IN    EIGHT    VOLUMES 


THE  NOVELS,  TALES  AND  LETTERS 

or 

PROSPER  MERIMEE 

EDITED  BY  PROF.  GEORGE  SAINTSBURY,  M.A. 

COMPLETE    IK    EIGHT    VOLUMES 

CARMEN 

ARSENE  GUIUX>T 
ABBE  AUBAIN 


f»»i.Y  «M«V   w«i  .  !•*. 
THI  i.»»r  HJ(.*T  (OTu  Ajrn 


ith  Il!urtr*»ions  by 
D  s. 


.3301119  n  1308011 

NEW  YQ^^lvl  V>A  ^-|Aote  nV         PHILADELPHIA 

FRANK   S.  HOLBY 
M  C  M  V I 


<i-«.  -.,-     ,  >»»•. 

Prosper  Mt-rimee. 

Jn  etching  by  Lalauze. 


THE  NOVELS,  TALES  AND  LETTERS 

OF 

PROSPER  MERIMEE 

EDITED  BY  PROF.  GEORGE  SAINTSBURY,  M.A. 


COMPLETE    IN    EIGHT    VOLUMES 


CARMEN 

ARSENE  GUILLOT 
ABBE  AUBAIN 


Translated  by 

EMILY   MARY    WALLER 

THE   LADY  MARY   LOYD   AND 

DR.    EDMUND    BURKE   THOMPSON 

With  Illustrations  by 

GUSTAVE   FRAIPONT    AND   S.  ARCO 


NEW  YORK  PHILADELPHIA 

FRANK   S.  HOLBY 

MCMVI 


\ 

COPYRIGHT,  1905 
BY  FRANK  S.  HOLBY 


All  rights  reserved 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION ix 

CARMEN         1 

ARSENE  GUILLOT 109 

THE  ABBE  AUBAIN          .........  191 

You  I 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

VOLUME  I. 

Prosper  Merime'e Frontispiece 

An  etching  by  Lalauze 

PAGE 
Here  are  some  cigars  for  your  journey.     Good  luck 

to  you."     And  I  held  out  my  hand  to  him     .        .       20 
Etched  by  A.  Nargeotfrom  a  draining  by  S.  Arcos 

Then  he  took  the  bouquet  and  slipped  it  carefully  in  his 

table  drawer 199 

An  etching  from  a  drawing  by  C.  Fraipont 


INTRODUCTION 

IT  is  curious  that  while  a  great  deal  has  been 
written,  and  while  much  has  been  written 
very  well,  on  the  personality  of  the  author 
of  Colomba}  the  writers  have  usually  rather 
shuffled  off  the  duty  of  thoroughly  appraising 
his  literary  character  and  position.  Except  by 
a  few  violent  partisans  of  Republicanism  or 
Romanticism,  that  position  has  always  been 
acknowledged  to  be  a  very  high  one,  from  the 
time  when,  nearly  eighty  years  ago,  Goethe  set 
his  seal  upon  its  patent;  but  there  has  been  a 
certain  half-heartedness  in  most  of  the  acknowl- 
edgments, and  (which  is  worse) ,  a  certain  failure 
to  survey  the  whole  subject  adequately.  Even 
Mr.  Pater's  essay,  one  of  the  best  critical  things 
on  Merimee  in  any  language,  is  not  quite  just, 
and  its  injustice  is  due  to  its  inadequacy. 

The  secret  of  failure,  if  failure  there  has 
been — and  it  has  been  admitted  by  some  of  the 
acutest  writers  on  Merimee  themselves  * — is,  I 

*M.  Filon  in  his  Merimee  et  ses  Amis  (Paris,  1894),  an  excellent 
book,  is  avowedly  and  purposely  biographical.  Taine  in  his  Introduc- 
tion to  the  Inconnue  letters  is  good,  but  not  adequate  ;  M.  d'Hausson- 

iz 


x  INTRODUCTION 

think,  a  tolerably  open  one.  Few  people  seem 
to  have  been  able  to  keep  an  even  hand  between 
the  consideration  of  Merimee's  character  as  a 
man  and  the  consideration  of  his  character  as 
an  author.  Some  of  them  have  been  so  much 
interested  in  the  former  that  they  have  had  ap- 
parently little  or  no  time  or  attention  to  spare 
for  the  latter;  some  have  found  the  man  so  un- 
sympathetic that  they  have  allowed  their  disap- 
probation or  distaste  to  colour  and  vitiate  their 
appreciation  of  the  literature.  Hardly  anybody, 
so  far  as  I  know,  has  unreservedly  and  methodi- 
cally used  both  keys  and  both  lights — the  litera- 
ture to  unlock  and  irradiate  the  life,  the  life  to 
illustrate  and  open  the  literature. 

The  difficulty  may  have  been  complicated, 
notwithstanding  the  passing  of  a  whole  genera- 
tion since  his  death,  by  the  fact  that,  except  to 
his  most  intimate  friends  (who  were  few),  the 
living  Merimee  was  to  a  very  great  extent  a 
disguise  and  travesty  of  the  true  man;  and  that 
nearly  fifty  years  of  persistent,  though  leisurely, 
publication  left  even  the  literature  in  a  most 
disastrous  need  of  correction  and  illumination 
by  that  part  of  it  which  could  not  be  known 
in  the  author's  lifetime.  A  certain  power  of 

ville  (Paris,  1888)  very  one-sided;  M.  Blazede  Bury  (Lettres  a  une  autre 
Inconnue)  tries  too  much  to  be  vif. 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

literary  divination  indeed  might  have  remedied 
this,  and  did  in  a  few  cases;  but  literary,  like 
other  divination,  is  not  precisely  the  gift  of  the 
man  in  the  street.  Even  now,  when  every  com- 
petent critic  admits  that  the  Merimee  of  the 
Letters  insists  on  being  heard  in  explanation 
and  justification  of  the  Merimee  who  was  known 
as  a  man  before  1870,  comparatively  few  have 
admitted  the  testimony  in  similar  rectification 
of  judgments  of  the  writer.  It  is  this  task, 
combined  with  a  thorough  critical  examination 
of  the  whole  literary  Merimee,  absent  from,  as 
well  as  present,  in  this  new  English  appearance 
of  his  work,  that  is  the  purpose  of  the  present 
Introduction.  I  hope  that  readers  will  not  find 
it  too  long;  I  could  find  it  in  my  own  heart 
to  make  it  very  much  longer. 

Among  the  uneventful  lives  of  most  modern 
men  of  letters,  Merimee's  is  almost  distinguished 
by  its  exceptional  want  of  distinguished  event. 
Except  that  he  was  once  put  in  prison  * — a 
curious  experience  for  a  most  respectable  mem- 
ber of  society,  a  government  official  of  high  rank 
at  the  time,  and  before  long  to  be  a  Senator — 
and  excepting  also  the  tragic  circumstance  of 
his  death  amid  the  imminent  ruin  of  his  country, 
nothing  could  possibly  be  less  "  accidented  "  than 

*  For  unguarded  language  in  defending  his  friend  Libri. 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

his  existence.  Yet  it  was  very  far  from  monot- 
onous; and  even  if  it  had  been  more  so  in  out- 
ward circumstances,  it  would  have  been  filled 
with  pulse  and  movement  by  his  activities  of 
brain  and  (whatever  some  of  his  contemporaries 
may  have  thought)  of  heart. 

He  was  born  on  the  28th  of  September,  1803 
(a  date  to  which  he  often  refers  with  a  semi- 
Swiftian  bitterness)  at  Paris,  of  a  Norman  fam- 
ily; and  perhaps  it  is  not  fanciful  to  say  that 
he  represents,  remarkably  enough,  one  of  the 
types  of  the  rich  and  varied  Norman  tempera- 
ment as  it  has  shown  itself  on  both  sides  of  the 
Channel.  His  grandfather  had  been  a  lawyer 
and  steward  to  Marshal  Broglie  (Carlyle's 
"  Broglie  the  War  God");  his  father  was  a 
painter  with  more  knowledge  than  artistic  skill, 
a  professor,  and  an  official  who  acted  as  a  sort 
of  patron  to  Hazlitt  when  he  visited  Paris  as 
an  art  student,  and  had  travelled  much.  His 
father  married  rather  late  in  life,  Anna  Moreau, 
a  pupil  at  a  school  where  he  taught.  In  her 
Merimee  possessed  (what  I  fancy  most  free- 
thinkers themselves  would  much  rather  not  have 
possessed),  a  free-thinking  mother:  and  his  own 
parade  of  infidelity  is  generally  set  down  to  her 
influence.  He  was,  at  any  rate,  devoted  to  her, 
kept  her  with  him  after  his  father's  death  until 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

her  own,  and  has  been  thought  by  some  to  have 
sacrificed  to  her  the  only  love  ("in  all  good  and 
honour  "  as  his  countrymen  say)  that  he  ever 
experienced.  However  that  may  be,  all  tradi- 
tion and  all  recorded  traits  give  her  out  as  much 
more  remarkable  for  cleverness  than  for  amia- 
bility. A  hackneyed  anecdote  represents  his 
incurable  distrust,  and  his  at  least  affected  con- 
tempt, of  mankind  as  due  to  an  occasion  when, 
having  been  severely  rebuked  and  punished  for 
some  childish  fault,  he  overheard  his  parents 
laughing  at  his  contrition  and  dismay.  These 
things  are  very  often  forged  or  overvalued  when 
true;  but  something  external,  and  something 
more  than  that  influence  of  friendship  to  which 
we  shall  come  presently,  is  reasonably  wanted  to 
explain  the  difference  between  the  Merimee  who 
almost  unwillingly,  but  quite  unmistakably,  re- 
veals himself  in  the  Letters,  and  the  Merimee 
who  played  his  part  to  the  world. 

The  family  was  not  rich,  and  though  in  his 
later  years  (whether  by  savings  from  his  income 
as  Senator,  or  in  some  other  way)  Merimee  ap- 
pears to  have  accumulated  some  private  fortune, 
he  represents  himself  earlier  as  entirely  de- 
pendent upon  his  stipend.  He  had  studied  law, 
probably  never  with  any  intention  to  practice, 
and  after  the  Revolution  of  1830,  had  various 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

places  in  various  public  offices.  And  he  was 
lucky  enough,  when  he  was  only  twenty-eight,  to 
obtain  that  of  Inspector-General  of  Historical 
Monuments,  an  office  of  considerable  dignity, 
agreeable  and  to  him,  specially  congenial  in  its 
duties,  sufficiently  well  paid,  and  perfectly  com- 
patible with  the  devotion  of  plenty  of  time  to 
society  which  he  did  not  dislike,  to  non-official 
travel  of  which  he  was  fond,  to  those  occasional 
ensconcements  at  home  and  in  solitude  to  which, 
by  one  of  the  frequent  contrasts  in  his  character, 
he  was  passionately  devoted,  and  to  literature, 
of  which  he  soon  showed  an  extraordinary  com- 
mand. 

Merimee  was  early  thrown  into  contact  with 
the  Romantic  movement.  In  later  life  he  was 
regarded  as,  affected  to  be,  and  in  a  certain  sense 
was,  a  kind  of  deserter  from  it.  A  man  of  his 
scholarship  and  his  critical  temperament  must 
have  very  quickly  perceived  the  extravagance,  the 
one-sidedness,  and  the  sciolism  of  not  a  few  of 
those  who  took  part  in  it.  Yet  it  may  still  be 
questioned  whether  he  was  not  to  the  day  of 
his  death  a  Romantic  sheep  (though  a  sheep  as 
dangerous  to  meddle  with  as  a  Rocky  Mountain 
ram)  who  chose  to  wear  wolf's  clothing  and  to 
howl  with  the  wolves  at  times.  His  fondness 
for  exotic,  and  what  the  mere  French  "  Classic  " 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

has  always  openly  or  privately  held  to  be  bar- 
barian, subject,  character,  colour;  the  clear  in- 
clination to  the  supernatural  which  accompanies 
his  would-be  rationalism;  the  passion  which 
underlies  his  impassive  exterior,  and  the  senti- 
ment which  is  never  far  behind  his  apparent 
cynicism — nay  the  very  forms  and  colours  of  that 
cynicism  itself — are  all  Romantic.  It  is,  how- 
eyer,  really  characteristic  of  him  that  he  began 
with  two  books,  in  extreme  Romantic  style 
and  admittedly  of  immense  Romantic  influence, 
which  are  among  the  most  audacious  and  cold- 
blooded, if  also  among  the  most  successful  and 
finished,  of  hoaxes  in  literature.  There  never 
was  any  such  person  as  "  Clara  Gazul,"  the  pre- 
tended Spanish  comic  dramatist  whose  Theatre 
startled  all  Europe  and  delighted  all  lovers  of 
Romance  in  the  year  1825;  there  never  was  any 
such  person  as  her  spiritual  kinsman,  Hyacinthe 
Maglanovitch,  the  translation  of  whose  Illyrian 
lyrics  followed  two  years  later  as  La  Guzla. 
And  the  fact  that  the  title  of  the  latter  book  is 
ostentatiously  anagrammatised  from  the  author's 
name  of  the  other  (or  vice  versa)  is  a  sufficient 
measure  of  the  calm  audacity  of  the  author. 

Still  before  1830  and  in  complete  outward 
accordance  with  the  movement,  he  produced  in 
1828  the  singular  series  of  dialogue-sketches 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

called  La  Jacquerie,  and  in  the  next  year — drop- 
ping the  dialogue  arrangement  and  adopting 
that  of  the  regular  historical  novel  which  Scott 
had  made  popular — the  Chronique  du  Regne 
de  Charles  IX.  Of  these,  as  of  all  or  most  of 
the  works  to  be  mentioned,  we  shall  take  proper 
notice  hereafter,  but  for  the  present  we  must  be 
mainly  biographical.  Whether  by  accident  or 
not,  Merimee's  appointment  to  his  Inspectorship 
coincided  with  an  apparent  determination  of  his 
taste  and  enterprise  away  from  works  of  any 
length  and  toward  the  short  story.  In  this  he 
achieved,  during  the  next  ten  years,  a  reputation 
which  for  a  full  half  century  was  never  ques- 
tioned. And  though  some  changes  of  fashion 
have  caused  recent  critics  to  attempt  reserva- 
tions as  to  this,  there  is  very  little  doubt  that 
his  fame  will  be  completely  re-established  by  a 
later  posterity.  In  1844  he  was  elected  to  the 
Academy,  in  very  suitable  succession  to  Charles 
Nodier,  who  had  practically  shown  him  the  way 
(though  with  far  less  art  and  style  and  especially 
with  far  less  concentration  and  unity)  to  this 
very  class  of  story. 

The  coup  d'etat,  and  the  Second  Empire 
which  followed,  made  a  very  great  difference  in 
Merimee's  fortunes.  He  was  by  no  means  a 
Bonapartist ;  indeed,  though  he  had  a  strong  dis- 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

like  of  democracy,  it  can  not  be  said  that  he  was 
attached  to  any  French  political  party,  either 
by  intellectual  or  sentimental  sympathies.  He 
seems  earlier  to  have  had  some  positive  dislike, 
if  not  even  some  positive  contempt,  of  Louis 
Napoleon  himself;  and  never,  in  what  may  be 
called  their  subsequent  familiarity,  got  beyond 
a  very  lukewarm  attitude  toward  him.  But  he 
had  known  from  her  early  childhood,  and  was 
strongly  attached  to  the  beautiful  and  gracious 
Spanish-Scottish  lady  whom  Napoleon  soon 
made  Empress;  the  Emperor  himself,  who  had 
very  few  distinguished  men  of  letters  on  his  side, 
was  only  too  glad  to  recruit  one  of  the  very 
greatest  in  France;  and  Merimee,  not  by  any 
means  quite  cheerfully,  became,  in  1853,  a  Sena- 
tor. He  astonished  everybody  by  resigning  his 
Inspectorship,  which  he  might  have  kept,  and 
which  most  men  of  the  Imperial  party,  the  dis- 
tinguishing characteristic  of  which  was  certainly 
not  disinterestedness  or  immaculate  purity,  as 
certainly  would  have  kept. 

For  the  seventeen  years  which  elapsed  be- 
tween this  time  and  the  coincidence  of  his  own 
death  with  the  ruin  of  the  Empire,  Merimee's 
life,  which  had  already  fallen  into  what  may 
be  called  a  variety  of  pretty  identical  grooves, 
changed  these  grooves  a  little  but  not  much.  His 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

headquarters  in  Paris  remained  the  same;  and  so 
did  what  may  be  called  his  other  headquarters  at 
Cannes,  where,  in  ever  increasing  ill  health,  he 
more  and  more  established  himself  every  winter. 
He  still  made  regular  journeys  to  England, 
where  he  had  many  friends  and  hosts,  the  chief 
of  them  being  earlier  Mr.  Ellice  of  Glen- 
quoich,  and  latterly  Mr.  (afterward  Sir  An- 
tonio) Panizzi  of  the  British  Museum.  And 
he  still  occasionally  went  elsewhere,  especially 
to  Spain,  where  Madame  de  Monti  jo,  the 
Empress's  mother,  was  his  hostess  at  these 
times,  as  she  was  always  his  correspondent. 
Even  his  regular  tours  of  inspection  were 
in  a  manner  replaced  by  visits  almost  as 
regular  at  the  Imperial  country  residences  of 
Fontainebleau,  Compiegne,  and  Biarritz.  It  is 
difficult  to  be  very  certain  whether  he  enjoyed 
these  visits  or  not.  He  grumbles  at  them;  but 
that  is  a  common  if  not  almost  a  universal  piece 
of  human  hypocrisy  in  such  cases.  It  is  evident 
that  the  restraints  of  court  dress,  court  hours, 
and  court  routine  generally,  were  really  and,  in 
his  later  and  more  infirm  days,  seriously  annoy- 
ing to  him,  especially  as  he  had  a  most  un-French 
love  of  "  home  "  and  would  certainly  never  have 
been  prevented  from  marrying  by  the  famous 
consideration  "  that  he  should  have  nowhere  to 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

spend  his  evenings."  And,  as  has  been  said,  he 
had  no  warm  affection  for  the  Emperor,  though 
they  got  on  well  enough  when  he  was  asked  to 
assist  in  the  Vie  de  Cesar;  he  certainly  was  not 
more  warmly  disposed  toward  most  of  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Imperial  entourage;  and  while  the 
growing  "  Papalino  "  tendency  of  Empire  policy 
offended  his  prejudices,  other  points  about  it 
alarmed,  with  better  reason,  his  patriotism,  which 
was  real,  and  his  shrewdness,  which  was  uncom- 
mon. Still  his  affection  for  the  Empress,  and 
hers  for  him,  positively  alleviated  some  of  these 
things  and  served  as  a  compensation  for  them 
all ;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  Merimee,  who  had 
in  this  or  that  way  early  made  acquaintance  with 
an  unusual  number  of  distinguished  people  in 
many  European  countries,  was  glad  of  the  op- 
portunity to  maintain  and  extend  it. 

His  changed  life,  moreover,  was  not  entirely 
unfavourable  to  his  literary  production.  He  had 
always  had  a  leaning  toward  historical  study, 
and  had  produced  his  History  of  Peter  the  Cruel 
as  early  as  1843.  He  followed  this  up  with  a 
curious  episode  of  Russian  history,  Les  Faux 
Demetrius,  just  at  the  time  of  the  change  of 
government,  and  that,  later  still,  with  remarkable 
sketches  of  Les  Cosaques  d'Autrefois.  He  col- 
lected his  Miscellanies.  He  began  after  a  long 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

interval  to  write  short  stories  again.  But  the 
most  important  production  of  his  pen  during  this 
time,  even  as  pure  literature,  and  by  far  the  most 
important  as  providing  stuff  for  the  reader  and 
material  for  the  student  of  humanity,  is  con- 
tained in  his  Letters. 

It  is  necessary  to  read  only  two  or  three  of 
these  to  see  that  Merimee  was  a  born  letter- 
writer;  and  if,  later  in  the  century,  it  becomes 
possible  for  anyone  to  collect  and  edit  them 
completely,  the  collection  will  probably  equal 
that  of  Horace  Walpole's  in  size,  and  yield  to 
none  in  quality  and  variety  of  interest.  As  it 
is,  though  we  have  no  very  early  ones  and  though 
what  was  apparently  the  longest  and  largest  of 
all,  the  correspondence  with  Madame  de  Monti  jo, 
has  never  been  published  save  in  scraps  and  ex- 
tracts, the  known  bulk  is  great.  There  is  first 
and  foremost  the  famous  sequence  (rather  in- 
sequential,  according  to  M.  Filon)  of  the  Let- 
ires  d  une  Inconnue;  then  those  to  Panizzi ;  then 
those  A  une  outre  Inconnue,  which  are  the  least 
interesting  of  all;  then  the  extremely  attractive 
and  characteristic  ones  to  Mrs.  Senior  which 
Count  d'Haussonville  published;  then  those 
which  appeared  a  few  years  ago  in  the  Revue 
des  Deux  MondesJ  besides  the  abundant  extracts 
in  M.  Filon's  Merimee  et  ses  Amis,  the  collec- 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

tion  to  a  Rabelaisian-antiquarian  friend  in  the 
Avignon  library,  and  others  still. 

So  far  as  the  life  of  the  writer  is  concerned, 
the  story  told  by  Letters,  unless  very  carefully 
garbled  and  economised  by  the  editor,  becomes 
necessarily  a  more  and  more  sombre  one  as  life 
draws  more  and  more  into  "  the  browner  shades" ; 
and  there  was  not  likely  to  be  an  exception  in 
the  case  of  a  pessimist  like  Merimee.  He  had, 
however,  the  alleviations  of  tolerably  ample 
means,  of  some  warm  friendships,  to  use  no 
stronger  word,  and  of  a  curious  and  rather  un- 
exampled domestic  "  guardianship,"  which  he 
seems  to  have  prized  most  unaffectedly,  at  the 
hands  of  two  English  ladies  of  mature  age  and 
friends  of  his  mother,  Miss  Lagden  and  her 
sister  Mrs.  Ewers,  who  kept  house  for  him  at 
Cannes,  and  seem  to  have  always  been  at  hand  in 
Paris,  who  watched  by  his  deathbed  in  the  chaos 
of  the  Annee  Terrible,  and  who  saw  to  his  in- 
terment.* His  death  on  September  23,  1870, 
might,  but  for  the  infelicity  of  its  circumstance, 
have  been  taken  for  a  "  happy  release,"  inasmuch 

*  The  surprised  vexation  of  Merimee's  free-thinking,  and  the  jealousy 
of  his  Roman  Catholic  friends,  at  first  attributed  to  the  meddling  of 
these  ladies,  that  he,  a  pronounced  unbeliever,  had  been  buried  by  a 
French  Protestant  minister.  But  it  soon  appeared  that  this  was  done 
by  Merimee's  own  direction,  inserted  in  his  will  eighteen  months  before 
his  death. 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

as  it  appears  to  have  been  painless  and  sudden, 
while  he  had  for  many  months,  and  even  many 
years,  been  suffering  the  most  harassing  incon- 
venience always,  and  sometimes  the  most  intense 
pain,  from  a  complication  of  lung,  and  other 
disorders. 

It  is  usual,  in  studies  of  this  kind,  to  subjoin 
immediately  to  the  biographical  part  an  estimate 
of  the  subject's  character.  But,  as  I  have  al- 
ready observed,  Merimee's  work  and  its  purely 
literary  qualities  have  to  be  taken  in  a  rather 
uncommon  conjunction  with  his  life  that  each 
may  interpret  the  other,  and  any  characterisa- 
tion had  better  be  postponed.  On  one  point, 
however,  it  may  be  as  well  to  speak  at  once. 

It  has  been  usual,  and  for  a  long  time  I  was 
myself  not  disinclined,  to  regard  Merimee's  curi- 
ous cynicism  as  to  no  small  an  extent  a  reflex 
if  not  an  imitation,  of  the  not  entirely  dissimilar 
attitude  of  Henri  Beyle  (De  Stendhal)  whom 
he  knew  when  he  was  himself  young,  and  as 
long  as  Beyle's  life  permitted.  That  there  are 
resemblances  nobody  can  deny,  except  in  mere 
paradox;  and  Merimee's  own  very  remarkable 
article  on  Beyle  is  almost  sufficient  to  show  the 
sympathy  between  them.  In  the  last  twenty 
years  or  so,  however,  a  great  deal  of  new  light 
has  "been  shed,  by  fresh  publication,  on  Beyle  and 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

not  a  very  little  on  Merimee :  and  this  has  rather 
altered  the  complexion  of  the  rapport  between 
the  two.  Each  has  been  shown  to  have  been, 
in  familiar  phrase,  a  much  better  fellow  than 
he  pretended  to  be:  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  morbid  and  warped  strains  in  each  have 
been  more  clearly  demonstrated  and  illustrated. 
But  while  the  motto  of  both  was  no  doubt 
that  |i6|ivT]o-o  airtoTctv  *  which  Merimee  actually 
adopted,  the  complexion  of  their  mistrust  of 
themselves  and  of  mankind  was  very  differ- 
ent— even  more  different  than  their  fortunes. 
Merimee  has  been  emphatically  pronounced  by 
more  than  one  good  judge  "  a  gentleman,"  and 
it  is  exceedingly  difficult  to  imagine  any  defini- 
tion of  that  word  that  would  take  in  Beyle. 
Beyle  had  been  a  really  badly  treated  (though 
also  a  rather  badly  behaved)  child,  and  he  never 
forgot  it;  while  his  career  was  a  string  of  fail- 
ures. Merimee  was  all  his  life  rather  "  spoilt  "  by 
this  or  that  person,  and  his  career  was  in  litera- 
ture a  brilliant  and  in  other  ways  a  considerable 
success. 

Lastly,  Merimee,  whether  he  did  great  things 
or  small,  did  them  with  a  leisurely  and  enjoying 
completeness,  with  an  absolute  knowledge  of 
what  he  wanted  to  do  and  an  absolute  faculty  of 

*  "  Remember  to  distrust "  inscribed  in  Greek  by  Merimee  on  a  ring. 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

doing  it,  which  can  hardly  be  paralleled;  while 
Beyle's  work  is  to  a  great  extent  mere  sketch,  if 
not  mere  fragment,  and  even  in  the  more  appar- 
ently finished  pieces  displays  a  want  of  accom- 
plishment, an  uneasy  and  almost  fretful  tenta- 
tiveness,  which  is  quite  as  much  due  to  uncertainty 
of  plan  as  to  imperfect  command  of  style.  That 
these  differences  prevented  Beyle  from  exercis- 
ing any  influence  on  Merimee  I  should  not  dream 
of  suggesting ;  but  I  think  now  that  they  limited 
that  influence  decidedly,  and  that  Merimee  would 
have  been  very  much  what  he  was  if  he  had  never 
met,  and  even  never  read,  Beyle  at  all. 

Returning  to  the  books,  it  will  probably  be 
well  to  observe  a  good  old  rule  and  despatch 
the  least  interesting  and  those  which  will  not 
be  included  within  the  present  collection,  first. 
Merimee's  historical  work  occupies  a  peculiar — 
I  should  think  almost  a  unique  position.  It  is 
certainly  not  the  most  common  of  things  to  find 
a  historian  who  possesses  unlimited  patience  and 
devotion  to  the  "  document,"  possessing  at  the 
same  time  a  signal  command  of  purely  literary 
power.  It  is  still  more  uncommon  to  find  these 
two  faculties  further  combined  with  that  not 
merely  of  writing,  but  of  arranging  what 
is  written  dramatically.  Now  Merimee  had  all 
three — and  all  three  to  an  extent  very  unusual, 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

while  he  also  possessed  a  fourth  and  a  fifth  qual- 
ity not  less  valuable  than  any  of  them,  a  piercing 
judgment  and  a  robust  common  sense.  No 
research  was  too  troublesome  for  him;  no  man 
in  Europe  was  his  superior  for  pure  style  in 
his  own  language;  and  he  was  on  the  one  hand 
the  author  of  Colombo,,  on  the  other  the  author 
of  the  Enlevement  de  la  Redoute.  One  might 
have  expected  from  him  historical  work  as  brill- 
iant as  Caryle's,  but  less  volcanic,  as  masterly 
as  Thucydides,  but  free  from  obscurity  of 
phrase  and  awkwardness  of  arrangement.  Yet, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  his  writings  of  this  class 
have  never,  I  think,  been  much  read  even  in 
France,  while  out  of  it  they  are  hardly  known, 
except  to  those  who  have  special  interest  in 
their  subjects.  Not  that  these  subjects  are  by 
any  means  devoid  of  interest  in  themselves, 
though  some  of  them  may  be  chargeable  with  a 
slightly  parochial  character,  with  handling  what 
have  been  called  in  a  famous  phrase  "  battles 
of  kites  and  crows."  The  two  longer  Roman 
studies  *  deal  with  hackneyed  subjects,  but  the 
weariness  of  ancient  history,  which  is  felt  or 
aff ected  by  some,  is  balanced  by  something  quite 
different  from  weariness  on  the  part  of  others. 
The  History  of  Pedro  the  Cruel  is  one  of  the 

*  The  Social  War  and  The  Conspiracy  of  Catiline. 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

most  typical  historical  romances  of  mediaeval 
times :  and  if  it  is  rendered  awkward  to  deal  with 
by  the  previous  dealings  of  Froissart,  the  most 
delightful  of  all  chroniclers,  this  does  not  apply 
everywhere,  and  Froissart  himself  can  always  be 
drawn  upon  for  illustration  and  ornament.  In- 
deed, as  it  is,  Merimee's  Froissartesque  versions 
of  old  Spanish  chronicles  are  admirable  sets-off 
to  his  story.  That  of  the  False  Demetrius  is 
again  almost  an  ideal  canvas  for  a  historical 
novel:  and  the  still  obscurer  fortunes  and  tradi- 
tions as  to  Stenka  Razine,  if  they  suggest  verse 
rather  than  prose,  are  perfectly  Byronic.  To 
me  I  confess  the  actual  books  *  are  not  unattrac- 
tive. The  extraordinary  limpidity  of  the  style, 
which  never  drags,  or  ruffles  itself,  or  degen- 
erates, in  all  the  obscure  and  complicated  nar- 
rative; the  critical  judgment  of  character  and 
probability,  of  fact  and  setting,  more  than  save 
them.  But  I  can  quite  understand  their  want 
of  popularity.  They  are  full  of  horrors;  and 
though  Merimee  does  not  in  the  least  gloat  over 
these,  he  recounts  them  a  little  too  dispassion- 
ately. He  may  seem  also  a  little  too  much  to 
remember  that  he  has  been  a  romancer  at  other 
times,  and  to  impress  upon  his  readers  that  he 
is  the  soberest  of  historians  here.  He  will  never 

*  Histoire  de  Don  Pedre  and  Lea  Cosaques  d'Autrefois. 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

"  let  himself  go  "  in  episode  or  peroration,  in 
description  or  character.  It  would  not  have 
been  difficult  for  a  man  of  much  less  power, 
and  it  would  have  been  perfectly  easy  for  him, 
to  make  a  most  striking  figure  out  of  that 
Polish  damsel  of  high  degree,  Marine  Mniszek, 
who  was  by  birth  almost  a  princess,  who  was 
beautiful,  who  was  for  a  few  days  Czarina  of 
All  the  Russias;  whose  husband,  "pretender" 
or  not,  was  massacred  almost  before  her  eyes, 
while  she  herself  narrowly  escaped  the  same  fate 
and  worse ;  who  then  gave  herself  into  the  power 
of  a  coarser  adventurer  and  for  years  was  a 
sort  of  "  Queen  of  the  Leaguer  "  among  wild 
Cossacks  and  outlaws;  who  was  perhaps  herself 
assassinated,  and  certainly  died  in  a  dungeon 
while  still  in  the  prime  of  her  youth.  Merimee 
gives  you  all  the  facts,  gives  you  them  con- 
scientiously, clearly,  very  far  indeed  from  dully ; 
but  he  refuses,  with  almost  ostentatious  absti- 
nence, the  few  touches  of  art  and  nature  which 
would  have  made  her  a  heroine  of  romance,  as 
well  as  a  figure  in  history. 

On  the  much  more  fully  drawn  figure  of 
"Dampeter"  (as  Lord  Berners  calls  Don 
Pedro)  himself,  Merimee,  though  he  is  too 
critical  to  accept  the  whitewashing  of  certain 
Spanish  historians,  is  by  no  means  very  un- 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION 

merciful.  He  sees  perfectly  well  that  on  Peter, 
as  on  other  kings  elsewhere,  was  forced  a  war 
to  the  death  with  a  turbulent,  faithless,  and  by 
no  means  too  patriotic  nobility;  that  some  of 
his  most  outrageous  acts  were  justified  by  the 
common  opinion  of  the  time,  and  so  forth.  He 
tolerates  the  king's  lawless  amours;  he  even 
clears  him  of  responsibility  for  some  of  the 
crimes  brought  against  him.  But  once  more  he 
will  hardly  ever — in  spite  of  himself  he  does 
now  and  then — breathe,  as  he  so  easily  could,  the 
little  wind  of  the  spirit  that  would  clothe  the 
dead  tyrant's  bones  and  endue  his  flesh  with 
blood  and  life.  We  may  do  it  if  we  like;  we 
may — to  change  the  metaphor — make  the  salad 
for  ourselves.  The  green  stuff  is  all  beautifully 
washed  and  dished  up ;  the  bowl  and  spoons  and 
forks  are  bright  and  clean;  the  cruets  are  full 
and  at  hand.  But  he  will  not  exactly  make  it 
for  us;  at  any  rate  he  will  not  give  it  the  last 
magical  toss  and  whisk  that  completes  the 
making. 

Now  readers  (and  they  are  not  wholly  to 
be  blamed)  usually  resent  this  treatment,  or  at 
least  decline  to  read  the  author  who  so  treats 
them.  It  is  beyond  all  doubt  a  noble  ambition 
to  "  write  true  history,"  to  assume  that  the  reader 
is  a  serious  student  who  desires  nothing  more 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

than  to  have  the  facts  loyally  discovered  and 
intelligently  ordered,  the  arguments  judicially 
summarised  and  criticised.  But  whether  it  pays 
sufficient  attention  to  that  "  human  nature " 
which  is  after  all  the  historian's  main  subject, 
may  be  questioned.  And  it  is  perhaps  specially 
unwise  (though  it  is  specially  natural)  when  the 
writer  is  "  two  "  or  more  "  gentlemen  at  once," 
when  it  is  perfectly  well  known  that  he  has  all  the 
necessary  powers  at  command  and  merely  de- 
clines to  use  them.  Merimee  had,  if  he  had 
chosen  to  attend  to  it,  a  good  example  set  him 
by  the  greatest  of  his  craftf ellows  in  both  crafts. 
It  is  well  known  how  fascinatingly  Scott  has 
told  the  history  of  Scotland,  yet  I  have  been 
assured  by  one  of  the  soberest  and  most  thor- 
oughgoing students  of  that  history  from  the 
purely  historical  side,  that  it  would  have  been 
difficult  in  Scott's  time  to  give  a  better  account. 
Nor  does  Merimee,  any  more  than  Scott  himself, 
disdain  reference  to  purely  romantic  or  mythical 
"  excursions  and  alarms."  He  does  not  omit  the 
wild  and  ghastly  legend  of  Stenka  Razine,  the 
Cossack  pirate,  flinging  his  Persian  captive  and 
mistress  overboard  in  all  her  gorgeous  array,  not 
because  he  was  tired  of  her,  not  because  he  had 
a  quarrel  with  her,  but  as  "  a  gift  to  the  sea 
which  had  given  him  so  much " ;  the  almost 


xxx  INTRODUCTION 

stranger  justice — chivalrous  justice  for  once — 
of  Don  Pedro  on  the  felon  defenders  of  the 
castle  of  Cabezon.  But  he  will  not  give  the 
vivifying  touch  to  the  whole,  and  so  these 
wholes,  as  wholes,  are  neglected. 

His  Essays  or  Miscellanies  *  have  an  inter- 
est, if  not  intrinsically  greater,  yet  for  several 
reasons  of  wider  appeal.  Being  all  short,  they 
make  no  severe  demands  on  the  attention  of 
the  reader,  and  they  perhaps  put  the  peculiar 
genius  of  the  writer  all  the  better.  Moreover, 
in  their  wide  diversity  of  subject  there  is  some- 
thing to  suit  almost  everybody  who  has  any 
literary  tastes  at  all.  They  deal  with  art  and 
archaeology,  with  biography  and  literature,  with 
history  and  bric-a-brac,  with  things  ancient  and 
things  modern,  with  things  French  and  things 
not  French.  The  mere  survey  and  casual  se- 
lection of  their  contents — Cervantes,  Nodier, 
Beyle,  Froissart,  Brantome,  Pushkin,  Tur- 
gueineff,  Gogol,  The  Mormons,  A  Tomb  at  Tar- 
ragona, The  Hotel  de  Cluny,  Spanish  Litera- 
ture, Military  Architecture  in  the  Middle  Ages, 
Constantinople  in  1403 — supplies  a  sort  of  test 
of  appetite ;  a  person  who  can  not  find  something 
appetising  among  these  (and  there  are  others) 

*  Portraits  Historiques  et  Litteraires;  Melanges  Historiques  et  Litter- 
aires;  Etudes  sur  les  Arts  au  Moyen  Age. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

had  better  confine  himself  to  his  newspaper  and 
the  circulating  library  when  he  wants  anything 
to  read.  They  are  as  varied  in  length  as  they 
are  in  subject;  there  are  pieces  of  half  a  dozen 
pages  for  the  man  who  has  a  few  minutes  to 
fill  up,  and  pieces  of  a  hundred  for  him  who  can 
devote  a  more  solid  part  of  the  day  to  them. 

The  literary  prefaces  are  certainly  not  the 
least  interesting,  although  Merimee  never  cared 
to  be  as  good  a  purely  literary  critic  as  he  un- 
doubtedly might  have  been.  The  best  is  almost 
beyond  question  the  "  Beyle,"  where  his  intense 
interest  in  the  man  and  in  life  makes  up,  not 
merely  for  any  deficiencies  in  pure  literary 
handling  on  the  part  of  the  critic,  but  almost  for 
any  similiar  deficiencies  on  the  part  of  the  sub- 
ject himself.  What  with  the  presumed  and  what 
with  the  undoubted  relations  between  the  two 
men,  their  temperaments,  and  their  productions, 
the  peculiar  appeal  of  the  piece  is  such  as  it  would 
be  very  difficult  to  find  elsewhere;  and  the  play 
of  undercurrent  feeling  and  thought,  now  ex- 
any  similar  deficiencies  on  the  part  of  the  sub- 
ject, is  extraordinarily  attractive.  The  "  Cer- 
vantes," the  "  Froissart "  and  the  "  Brantome," 
especially  the  last,  are  written  with  that  un- 
feigned gusto  which  counts  for  so  much  in  litera- 
ture. The  "  Pushkin,"  the  "  TourgueinefF  "  and 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 

the  "  Gogol  "  will  always  hold  rank  as  the  "  let- 
ters of  introduction  "  (so  to  speak)  of  a  new  lit- 
erature to  Europe,  by  an  introducer  of  excep- 
tional competence  and  position.  If  there  are  two 
disappointing  pieces  here,  they  are  the  "  Nodier  " 
and  the  "  Ampere."  Yet  the  very  disappoint- 
ment is  interesting  because  it  is  just  (to  use  the 
hackneyed  jest)  what  we  always  expected.  Both 
were  diploma-pieces,  exercises  set  to  the  writer 
in  his  capacity  as  Academician.  And  these  are 
the  things  that  a  man  of  Merimee's  tempera- 
ment,— shy,  proud,  not  used  to  taskwork,  and 
decidedly  recalcitrant  to  it,  hating  gush  and  gos- 
sip, rhetoric  and  rigmarole — always  does  worst. 
I  would  fain  dwell  on  his  reviews  of  great 
histories,  of  politics  and  literature — Grote,  Meri- 
vale,  Ticknor — on  the  Mormon  article,  anti- 
quated now,  of  course,  as  a  mere  piece  of  in- 
formation and  halting  in  the  middle  of  the  story 
even  then,  but  a  miracle  of  easy  and  orderly 
narration; — on  the  "  Cossacks,"  which  contains, 
with  less  elaboration  and  research,  the  gist  of 
his  later  book  on  the  subject.  I  should  like  to 
notice  his  extraordinarily  sensible  plan  of  re- 
form for  the  French  Schools  of  Art  at  Rome ; — 
and  still  more  the  masterly  articles,  each  longer 
than  the  other  and  each  justifying  its  increased 
length  by  the  combined  art  and  matter  of  the 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

treatment,  on  Mediaeval  Religious  Architect- 
ure, Mediceval  Military  Architecture,  and 
The  Church  of  Saint  Savin.  But  if  I  did 
so,  I  should  encroach  too  much  on  the  space 
left  me  for  his  purely  creative  work — a  space 
hardly,  as  it  is,  sufficient  for  "  that  which  is  here 
and  that  which  is  not  " — for  the  fictions  in  semi- 
dramatic  form  which  have  had  mostly  to  be  ex- 
cluded, as  well  as  for  those  in  direct  nar- 
rative which  are  the  main  objects  and  subjects 
of  the  present  undertaking.  For,  as  I  have  said 
at  the  beginning,  there  is  hardly  any  author  who 
demands  to  be  studied  as  a  whole  more  than 
Merimee ;  and  while  it  is  thus  all  the  more  neces- 
sary to  notice  the  parts  of  his  work  which  can 
not  be  reproduced  here  in  full,  it  is  at  the  same 
time  desirable  to  distribute  this  notice  with  a 
view  to  the  relative  connection  of  these  parts 
with  his  chief  and  principal  function. 

It  is  noteworthy  enough  that  Merimee's  first 
exercises  in  this  function,  besides  being  hoaxes, 
were  taken  in  paths  which  were  not  really  his 
own.  "  Clara  Gazul "  writes  things  which  at 
any  rate  look  like  plays;  which  at  any  rate  are 
"  Tig  and  Tirry  "  to  use  Dr.  Johnson's  quaint 
and  agreeable  figure.*  Now,  Merimee  cer- 

*  See  Mrs.  Piozzi's  Anecdotes  ( Johnsoniana,  ed.  Napier  p.  iii,  or 
any  ed.).  > 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION 

tainly  had  not  the  dramatic,  at  least  the  theatri- 
cal, genius  proper.  Unlike  almost  all  other  men 
of  letters,  he  never  made  the  least  attempt  upon 
the  boards  and  the  only  thing  of  his  that  was 
ever  brought  there,  the  Carrosse  du  Saint  Sacre- 
mentj  was  staged  against  his  will,  and  justified 
his  objections  by  failing  as  a  play,  though  it  is 
one  of  the  most  charming  of  stories  par  person- 
nages.  La  Guzla,  on  the  other  hand,  gives  itself 
out  as  a  translation  of  poetry;  and  affects  the 
extremest  poetic  liberties  of  diction  and  of  com- 
position. And  Merimee,  like  Beyle,  though  per- 
haps not  to  the  same  extent,  affected  to  care  little, 
and  did  not  probably  care  very  much,  for  the 
form  of  verse.  Yet  both  books  have  the  most 
admirable  literary  quality — a  quality  so  admir- 
able as  to  make  one  heartily  sorry  that  they  are 
much  more  often  spoken  of  as  mere  hoaxes  than 
as  anything  else.  To  anyone  who  judges  lit- 
erature by  what  it  is,  and  not  by  something  else, 
the  existence  or  non-existence  of  Hyacinthe 
Maglanovitch  is  a  matter  of  absolute  indiffer- 
ence. It  is  sufficient  that  the  pieces  which  their 
creator  chose  to  label  with  his  name,  whether 
they  are  Illyrian  or  not,  whether  they  are 
Hyacinthian  or  not,  are  admirable  folk-verse 
stuff,  and  much  better  than  most  originals. 
Some  of  them  (for  instance  the  opening  one 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 

The  Hawthorn  of  Veliko)  are  indeed  little 
more  than  clever  imitations  of  Scott  and  Byron 
and  Percy  plus  Illyrian  "  local  colour."  But  the 
Chant  de  Mort  and  Le  Seigneur  Mercure, 
and  the  Vampyre  poems,  and  LSAmant  en 
Bouteille  are  not  far  short  of  masterpieces,  and 
they  supply  an  important  "  note  "  for  the  gen- 
eral appreciation  of  their  author. 

The  "  plays,"  under  which  head  we  may  take 
not  only  Clara  Gazul  with  the  additions  made 
to  it  later,  but  La  Famille  Carvajal,  the  Jac- 
querie, the  more  definitely  dramatic  volume  en- 
titled Les  Deuce  Heritages,  and  the  curious 
Les  Mccontents,  give  us  not  merely  a  larger,  but 
a  more  complicated  and  difficult  subject.  Au- 
thorities of  the  most  diverse  opinions  have  held 
that  the  connection  between  literature  and  drama 
is  to  a  great  extent  fortuitous — that  is  to  say, 
not,  as  it  has  been  sometimes  misunderstood,  that 
a  play  may  be  thoroughly  successful  on  the  stage 
and  have  no  literary  qualities  (which  though 
true  enough  is  immaterial) ,  but  that  the  qualities 
of  literature  as  such,  and  the  qualities  of  acted 
drama  as  such,  are  independent.  Merimee  illus- 
trates this  remarkably  from  one  side. 

All  the  pieces  referred  to  above  are  litera- 
ture, generally  of  a  high  and  sometimes  of  quite 
the  highest  class.  Scarcely  one  gives,  as  we  read 


xxxvi  INTRODUCTION 

it,  the  idea  of  an  actable  drama,  and  not  one  that 
of  a  good  actable  drama;  though  there  may  be 
situations  and  scenes  here  and  there  which  might 
make  what  is  called  a  saynete.  Except  that  he 
employs  the  dramatic  method  of  presentation 
par  personnages  (to  repeat  that  useful  old 
French  phrase)  instead  of  that  of  narration — 
except  that  he  has  side-headings  of  speakers' 
names,  and  stage-directions,  and  divisions  of 
scenes — the  whole  thing  is  pure  romance  or 
pure  novel.  If  there  were  not  a  great  deal  of 
pedantry  in  human  nature  I  do  not  know  why 
we  should  object  to  this.  Some  of  the  pieces, 
Les  Espagnols  en  Danemark,  for  instance;  Les 
Deux  Heritages  and  some  others  would  perhaps 
be  better  in  narrative  prose.  Le  Carrosse  du 
Saint  Sacrement  might  be.  But  I  do  not  seem 
to  see  Une  Femme  est  un  Diable,  or  L'Occasion, 
or  Le  del  et  LEnfer,  nearly  so  well  in  the  con- 
tinuous form;  and  when  I  compare  La  Jac- 
querie with  Charles  IX,  I  am  by  no  means  sure 
that  the  former  would  gain  by  adapting  the 
shape  of  the  latter.  Nay  I  am  not  certain  that 
some  of  the  objections  which  M.  Filon  (for  in- 
stance) has  taken  to  the  latter  might  not  lose 
their  force  if  it  had  taken  the  shape  of  the 
former.  On  the  other  hand  there  is  not  one  of 
the  great  short  stories  which  would  not  lose  hor- 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvii 

ribly  by  being  turned  into  the  semi-dramatic 
form. 

All  this  may  be  thought  to  show  that 
Merimee  knew  what  he  was  about — a  thing 
which  perhaps  happens  more  frequently  than 
critics  of  great  writers  sometimes  seem  to  per- 
ceive. His  genius  appears  to  have  had  what  we 
may  call  its  more  concentrated  and  also  its  more 
desultory  moments.  In  the  former  he  wished 
to  take  a  situation  or  set  of  situations,  and  put 
it,  or  them,  with  the  utmost  directness — "  in 
column  "  as  the  military  folk  would  say.  Then 
he  wrote  in  plain  narrative  prose.  At  other 
times  he  wished  rather  to  skirmish,  to  stroll  about 
his  subject  and  sketch  it  from  various  points  of 
view;  then  he  took  the  form  by  personages.  This 
latter  has  resulted  in  some  wonderful  work. 
For  the  Famille  Carvajal,  I  have,  I  confess,  no 
great  affection  or  admiration.  Here  only,  per- 
haps, has  Merimee  fallen  into  the  mistake  which 
originated  in  Early  Romantic  times  and  which 
has  survived  all  the  changes  to  the  present  day, 
that  the  revolting  is  the  striking  in  itself.  The 
"  horrors "  of  La  Jacquerie  have,  with  the 
greater  length,  helped  to  make  it  more  un- 
popular, but  I  think  unjustly.  They  are  not 
ubiquitous;  the  constant  panoramic  change  of 
scene  and  subject  is,  except  for  persons  whose 


xxxviii  INTRODUCTION 

power  of  attention  is  very  feeble,  rather  fas- 
cinating; and  the  way  in  which  the  author  man- 
ages not  merely  to  paint  manners  but  to  in- 
sinuate character,  is  very  masterly. 

But  the  little  group  of  short  pieces  in  the 
form  to  which  I  have  referred  above — Une 
Femme  est  un  Triable,  L'Occasion,  Le  del  et 
L'Enfer,  Le  Carrosse  du  Saint  Sacrement,  sup- 
ply the  main  justification  of  the  arrangement; 
and  they  are  so  good  in  themselves  that,  with 
the  one  exception  also  hinted  (as  to  which  I 
am  not  quite  sure)  they  could  not  possibly  have 
been  told  as  well  narratively.  Three  of  the  four 
are  tragical;  only  one  comic;  but  the  mastery 
in  either  direction  is  practically  indifferent. 

Une  Femme  est  un  Diable  is  perhaps  the 
weakest;  it  probably  owes  something  to  Lewis's 
Monkj  a  very  dangerous  pattern,  and  the  char- 
acters of  the  three  inquisitors  are  somewhat 
conventional.  But  Mariquita,  part  victim,  part 
almost  unintentional  temptress,  is  altogether 
admirable,  and  her  various  moods  display  a 
power  of  realisation  and  expression  which  the 
greatest  masters  of  fiction  have  not  surpassed. 
The  pendant,  for  it  is  almost  a  pendant, 
LSOccasion,  deserves  at  least  the  same  praise 
and  perhaps  something  higher  still;  for  this 
is  pure  tragedy  while  the  other  is  only  subli- 


INTRODUCTION  xxxix 

mated  melodrama.  It  is  the  most  Browning- 
esque  of  Merimee's  things;  and  it  exhibits  the 
quality,  which  Browning  so  curiously  lacks,  of 
being  able  to  combine  the  dramatic,  if  not  the 
theatrical,  presentation  of  different  characters  in 
the  same  work,  without  making  all  but  one 
merely  foils  to  that  one. 

On  the  whole,  however,  Le  Ciel  et  L'Enfer, 
which  I  think  has  not  been  a  general  favourite, 
seems  to  me  the  very  best  of  the  tragic  pieces. 
The  priest  and  the  lover,  though  very  good,  are 
here  purposely  subordinated  to  Dona  Urraca, 
the  heroine;  and  once  more  her  changes  of 
mood,  far  deeper  and  more  serious  than  Mari- 
quita's,  are  a  triumph.  Coquetry,  devotion,  love, 
furious  and  almost  murderous  jealousy,  love 
again  and  quite  murderous  repentance  of  the 
former  act,  all  these  drive  over  the  soul  of  the 
heroine,  and  the  scene  of  the  story,  like  squalls 
and  sunbursts  on  a  stormy  day — as  suddenly, 
as  irresistibly,  as  naturally.  If  Merimee  had 
written  nothing  else,  he  would  have  handed  in 
his  diploma-piece  as  a  master  with  this. 

He  would  have  handed  it  as  surely,  though 
in  another  kind,  if  he  had  written  nothing  but 
Le  Carrosse  du  Saint  Sacrement.  Here  all  is 
sunny  enough;  the  spiteful  tittle-tattle  (whether 
it  was  quite  false  witness,  one  may  be  permitted 


xl  INTRODUCTION 

to  entertain  the  shadow  of  a  doubt)  of  the  secre- 
tary Martinez  only  gives  the  slight  touch  of 
dark  needed  to  set  off  the  brightness.  The 
Viceroy,  who  allows  himself  to  be  fooled  without 
being,  in  more  than  the  very  least  degree,  a  fool, 
and  who  is  wise  enough  not  to  quarrel  with  his 
own  happiness;  the  Bishop,  as  wise  in  his  gen- 
eration yet  not  other  than  a  very  respectable 
child  of  light  for  all  that;  all  the  minor  char- 
acters are  capital.  But  the  heroine,  La  Peri- 
chole,  is  something  better.  She  is  not  only 
Merimee's  most  amiable  heroine,  but  what  I 
trust  I  may  be  permitted  to  call,  in  deliberate 
flouting  of  a  pedant  objection,  his  "  nicest." 
From  the  point  of  view  of  strict  morality,  she 
may  need  a  little  absolution;  but  there  is  not  a 
drop  of  bad  blood  in  her,  and  she  is  as  far  from 
being  silly  as  she  is  from  being  disagreeable. 
Her  donation  *  is  not  only  a  stroke  of  genius 
as  getting  herself,  the  Viceroy,  and  others,  out 
of  a  very  awkward  situation  with  flying  colours, 
but  it  is  also  something  better.  His  Excellency 
Don  Andres  de  Ribera  was  most  sincerely  to 
be  congratulated,  even  if  he  did  share  the  sub- 
ject of  congratulation  with  a  rather  uncertain 
number  of  others.  And  this  most  fascinating 

*  The  idea  that  this  story  is  a  piece  of  Me'rime'e's  Voltairianism  and 
intended  to  be  offensive  to  orthodoxy,  is  quite  gratuitous. 


INTRODUCTION  xli 

Camilla — light-footed  as  her  Virgilian  name- 
sake, light-hearted  as  anyone,  quite  arguably  not 
too  light  in  other  acceptations  of  the  word — may 
introduce  a  slight  protest  in  passing  against  the 
theory  of  Merimee's  "  wicked  heroine "  which 
makes  a  great  figure  in  some  criticisms  of  him. 
Of  course  the  not-quite-good  heroine  has 
great  accommodations  and  great  temptations  for 
the  novelist  and  the  poet.  It  is  only  a  Shake- 
speare who  can  make  Miranda  and  Imogen  abso- 
lutely fascinating ;  and  perhaps  even  in  him  there 
are  some  of  us  who  prefer  Cleopatra  to  either. 
Merimee's  pessimism,  some  unfortunate  and 
not  quite  blameless  experiences  of  his,  his  other 
experiences,  blameless  but  still  unfortunate,  of 
a  mother  who  though  virtuous  was  "  hard,"  added 
to  the  natural  tendency  of  the  artist  to  make  use 
of  the  most  effective  materials,  have  all  no  doubt 
had  some  influence  on  his  practice.  But  it  is 
quite  unfair  to  take  Carmen,  who  is  probably 
his  best  known  heroine,  as  his  typical  one.  Co- 
lomba's  eccentric  ideas  on  the  subject  of  murder 
were  in  the  circumstances  no  blight  on  her  general 
character,  which  is  both  stainless  and  amiable; 
anybody  who  could  be  quite  certain  of  the  ab- 
sence of  awkward  points  in  his  genealogy  would 
be  a  fool  not  to  marry  Colomba  if  she  would 
have  him.  La  Perichole,  as  we  have  seen,  if  not 


xlii  INTRODUCTION 

quite  stainless,  has  not  one  unamiable  fault. 
Madame  de  Piennes,  the  agreeably  mistaken 
heroine  of  L'Abbe  Aubain s  and  others  have 
nothing  "  fatal  "  or  Lilith-like  about  them.  Let 
us  clear  our  minds  of  cant. 

With  minds  so  cleared  we  are  in  a  fit  state 
to  approach  the  main  body  of  Merimee's  great- 
est and  least-questioned  work,  the  prose  tales 
in  direct  narrative  form.  In  the  usual  French 
editions  these  are  collected  without  much  regard 
to  date;  but  they  fall  chronologically  into  three 
broad  divisions.  The  first,  containing  not  merely 
Charles  IX  at  the  beginning  and  Colomba  at 
the  end,  but  most  of  the  better-known  short 
tales,  was  the  product  of  the  author's  youth  and 
tolerably  early  manhood,  from  1829  to  1840.  A 
smaller  number,  nearly  all  remarkable,  including 
Carmen,  Arsene  GuiLlot,  L'Abbe  Aubain  and  the 
less  generally  popular  but  excellent  //  Ticcolo 
di  Madama  Lucrezia}  are  scattered  over  the 
forties ;  while  two  of  the  greatest,  Loins  and  La 
Chambre  Bleue,  date  from  quite  the  last  years 
of  Merimee's  life.  But  their  characteristics  are 
singularly  equal;  however  much  water  may  have 
passed  the  mill  between  1829  and  1866,  the  in- 
terval saw  little  change  and  certainly  no  falling 
off  in  the  artist's  powers. 

It  is,  however,  generally  agreed  that  those 


INTRODUCTION  xliii 

powers  were  not  displayed  at  their  very  happiest 
in  the  Chronique  de  Charles  IX,  though  Merimee 
never  did  better  things  than  the  book  contains. 
The  demand  for  "  unity  "  is  sometimes  thought 
a  pedantic  one;  and  Apollo  knows  only  too  well 
how  often  it  has  been  made  in  a  pedantic  spirit. 
But  to  say  "  The  Devil  take  all  Unity  "  is  as 
dangerous  in  literature  as  to  say  "  The  Devil 
take  all  Order  "  has  often  proved  to  be  in  war, 
before  and  since  Shakespeare  formulated  it  in 
those  words.  The  Chronique !,  with  all  its  brill- 
iant sliding  scenes,  all  its  panorama  as  of  a 
vivid  dream,  is  certainly  deficient  in  unity  of 
any  kind,  whether  of  action,  of  character,  or 
even  that  uncovenanted  mercy  the  "  Unity  of 
Interest."  And  it  is  unluckily  sure  to  be  con- 
fronted with  other  work  of  the  same  time,  or 
nearly  so,  in  which,  whether  unity  of  action  and 
character  is  present  or  not,  unity  of  interest 
certainly  is — the  work  of  Dumas.  I  am  myself 
extremely  fond  of  the  Chronique, — neither  be- 
cause nor  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  once  trans- 
lated it.  But  I  can  quite  understand  others 
failing  to  like  it,  and  I  can  see  that  it  has  some 
positive  defects. 

I  should  be  much  less  accommodating  in  the 
case  of  the  shorter  tales,  from  L'Enlevement  de 
la  Redoute  to  Colomba.  The  last  quarter  of  the 


xliv  INTRODUCTION 

nineteenth  century  prided  itself  particularly  on 
its  short  stories,  and  I  understand  that  the  pride 
has  been  taken  on  by  the  twentieth.  Indeed 
I  have  seen  it  said  totidem  verbis,  that,  good 
as  they  may  be,  Merimee's  examples  can  not 
pretend  to  the  subtlety,  the  poignancy,  the  true 
philosophico-mythical  character  of  ours.  Well, 
"  a  gude  conceit  of  ourselves  "  is  no  doubt  a  good 
gift  of  Providence  in  a  way.  But  I  fear  I  am 
not  able  to  share  it  in  this  particular  instance, 
and  to  this  particular  extent.  To  speak  of 
living  persons  is  invidious,  but  there  are,  I  sup- 
pose, few  living  persons  who  would  rank  them- 
selves or  any  of  their  contemporaries  as  superior 
to  the  late  M.  Guy  de  Maupassant  in  the  short 
story.  And  much  as  I  admire  Maupassant,  glad 
as  I  am  to  think  I  was  among  the  very  first 
English  critics  to  hail  him,  I  certainly  do  not 
think  that  he  has  beaten  Merimee.  Even  in 
what  les  jeunes  seem  to  consider  the  last  secret 
of  their  art,  the  secret  of  not  finishing,  of  leav- 
ing a  problem  and  a  suggestion,  Merimee  knew 
all  about  it,  though,  like  a  great  artist,  he  did 
not  too  often  indulge  in  what  is  at  its  best  some- 
thing of  a  trick,  while  it  may  be  something  worse 
— a  mere  subterfuge  to  hide  an  inability  to  finish 
— a  sort  of  literary  parallel  to  the  proceedings 
of  that  gifted  painter  who  put  forth  as  his  mas- 


INTRODUCTION  xlv 

terpiece  a  picture  of  "  Strasburg  Cathedral  in 
the  Dark." 

For  myself,  I  have  never  known  which  to 
admire  most — the  variety  of  effect  which  Meri- 
mee  produces;  the  economy  of  means  by  which 
he  produces  it;  or  the  absolute  perfection  of 
the  effect  produced.  Except  by  mere  para- 
doxers  of  the  school  just  glanced  at,  who  find 
it  too  definite  and  clear,  L'Enlevement  de  la 
Redout e  has  always  been  confessed  to  be  a 
ne  plus  ultra.  It  is  in  race-horse  condition;  not 
an  ounce  of  flesh  on  it  that  can  hamper  or  drag 
its  progress,  not  a  muscle  wanting  in  develop- 
ment to  carry  it  at  swiftest  and  surest  toward 
the  goal.  The  same  is  the  case  with  what  is  per- 
haps its  companion  in  general  esteem,  Mateo 
Falcone.  But  Merimee,  though  never  luxuriant, 
is  not  always  thus  ascetic.  There  is  nothing  of 
his  that  I  myself  prefer  to  the  Venus  d'llle 
which  has  the  accidental  but  not  unimportant 
charm  of  having  the  same  subject  as  another 
masterpiece  by  another  master  as  different  as 
possible,  Mr.  William  Morris's  Ring  Given  to 
Venus.  Indeed,  Merimee's  management  of  the 
supernatural  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  points 
about  him,  and  supplies  another  "  note  "  to  be 
carefully  heeded  in  estimating  his  general  char- 
acter, literary  and  other.  The  blending  here  of 


xlvi  INTRODUCTION 

comedy  with  tragedy,  of  incident  and  sugges- 
tion, is  unrivalled,  or  rivalled  only  by  the  other 
mixture  of  the  voluptuous  and  the  terrible. 
To  call  it,  as  it  has  been  called,  "  a  materialistic 
myth  "  is  at  least  to  suggest  a  gross  misunder- 
standing. It  is  a  resurrection  of  the  flesh  and 
blood  from  which  all  true  myths  have  been 
originated. 

For  two  great  favourites  with  some  good 
judges,  Tamango  and  La  Partie  de  Tric- 
Trac,  I  care  less,  though  they  would  certainly 
make  the  fortune  of  any  other  tale-teller.  But 
who  shall  overpraise  Les  Ames  du  Purgatoire? 
I  know  no  story  of  any  writer  to  the  style 
of  which  one  of  the  hack  words  of  criticism 
"limpid'*  applies  so  absolutely;  and  once  more 
it  has  one  of  those  extraordinary  blends,  antithe- 
sis, antinomies,  which  give  such  a  savour  to 
those  who  can  savour  them  in  literature.  Meri- 
mee  is  given  out — perhaps  gave  himself  out — as 
a  professed  unbeliever  to  an  extent  rather  en- 
dangering his  general  reputation  for  restraint 
and  "  good  form."  Yet  the  religious  tone  which 
this  story  requires  is  infused  neither  in  the  least 
insufficiently  nor  with  that  ostentatious  excess 
which  is  often  visible  in  similar  cases.  And  what 
is  even  more  wonderful,  it  is  kept  in  harmony 
with  plenty  of  satiric  touches;  while  the  crisis- 


INTRODUCTION  xlvii 

scene,  where  Don  Juan  is  present  at  the  last 
possible  mass  for  his  own  soul,  is  almost  unbe- 
lievably good.  Again,  I  know  nothing  like  it 
anywhere. 

The  two,  tragi-comic  stories  of  society,  La 
Double  Meprise  and  Le  Vase  Etrusque  may  be 
very  slightly  injured^now  (as  all  stories  of  so- 
ciety are)  by  the  fact  that  their  atmosphere  is  of 
the  day  before  yesterday ;  but  that  will  come  right 
as  in  other  cases,  and  their  merits  will  remain. 

Colomba  and  Carmen — the  latter  perhaps 
by  the  more  adventitious  and  rather  treacherous 
aid  of  music  and  acting  than  in  itself,  but  still 
also  in  itself — are  so  much  the  best  known  things 
of  their  author  that  it  is  rafher  difficult  to  write 
of  them;  but  they  are  also  so  much  the  most 
"  considerable,"  in  plenary  combination  of  most 
of  the  senses  of  that  word,  that  they  can  not  be 
shirked.  There  can  be  no  reasonable  doubt  that 
their  author  intended  them  as  pendant  studies 
of  the  South,  and  of  the  women  of  the  South. 
As  such,  they  could  not — no  such  work  from  a 
man  of  Merimee's  age  could — escape  a  slightly 
Byronic  touch;  but  Merimee's  intense  feeling 
for  the  absurd,  the  purity  of  his  taste,  and  the 
detachment  which  it  would  be  too  complimentary 
to  modernity  to  call,  modern  in  him,  have  com- 
pletely kept  off  the  rancid  and  the  grotesque 


xlviii  INTRODUCTION 

flavour  and  colour  which  usually  mar  Byronism. 
I  have  said  that  I  think  Colomba  was  meant 
to  be,  and  that  I  think  she  is,  quite  a  good  girl, 
and  quite  a  "  nice  "  though  rather  a  formidable 
one.  It  is  less  a  point  of  faith  whether  Merimee 
has  entirely  freed  her  brother  from  the  touch 
of  comparative  unmanline,ss  which  is  almost  in- 
evitably suggested  by  such  a  Pallas-Diana  of  a 
sister.  But  the  fact  I  think,  is  that  Orso,  Lydia, 
her  father,  the  Prefect,  the  bandits,  and  all  the 
rest  are  designedly,  and  in  the  case  allowably, 
intended  to  be  foils  and  sets-off  to  this  Pallas- 
Diana  herself.  The  pains  which  Merimee  has 
taken  with  her  are  extraordinary,  and  some  of 
their  results — the  touch  of  literary  interest  in 
Dante,  the  camaraderie  with  the  colonel  and 
other  things — may  escape  the  careless;  but  they 
should  not.  Although  knowing  it  to  be  wrong, 
one  desiderates  a  sequel;  and  I  should  like  to 
ask  Mr.  "  Anthony  Hope "  whether  Phroso 
owes  anything  consciously  to  Colomba. 

In  Carmen,  on  the  other  hand,  the  interest 
is  very  much  less  centred  in  the  heroine;  indeed 
I  am  heretically  inclined  to  think  that  the 
wicked  gitana  is  much  less  really  the  heroine 
than  Jose  Navarro  is  the  hero.  She  has  a  little 
too  much  of  what  I  have  just  called  her  "  the 
wicked  gitana  "  in  other  words,  of  the  type — that 


INTRODUCTION  xlix 

bane  of  French  literature,  which  Merimee,  as 
a  rule,  has  so  successfully  eluded  or  vanquished. 
Her  hapless  lover  is  much  more  of  an  individual, 
and  it  is  more  her  office,  baneful  or  not,  to  bring 
out  his  individuality  than  to  display  her  own. 
It  may  even  seem  to  some  that  the  great  chagrin 
of  Merimee's  life — his  jilting  by  an  unlawful 
love  of  many  years'  standing — has  reflected  it- 
self too  closely  for  art  in  his  delineation  of  Car- 
men's character.  It  is  quite  naturally  possible 
that  Carmen,  after  years  of  faithful  infidelity 
and  false  truth  to  Jose,  should  suddenly  lose  all 
fancy  for  him;  but  it  is  not  so  possible  artistic- 
ally or  rather  (for  perhaps  everything  is  pos- 
sible artistically)  it  is  not  quite  made  probable 
in  the  story.  Yet  even  here  the  slip  (if  slip  it 
be)  is  redeemed  by  the  girl's  blend  of  fatalism 
and  recklessness,  her  refusal  even  to  deprecate 
the  punishment  which  she  has  provoked. 

If,  however,  the  character-painting  on  one 
side  be  a  little  "  out,"  it  is  flawless  on  the  other; 
and  the  action,  the  description,  and  the  rest 
throughout  are  incomparable.  For  a  good  deal 
of  the  "  local  colour  "  which  he  laughed  at,  loved 
and  used  so  victoriously,  Merimee  is  no  doubt 
indebted  to  Borrow,  but  he  knew  Spain  in- 
timately enough  to  make  the  borrowing  (this 
pun  is  entirely  unintentional)  his  own,  and  the 


1  INTRODUCTION 

matchless  method  of  narration  is  his  without  a 
suspicion  of  a  doubt.  Never  was  there  a  story 
which  held  the  reader  from  beginning  to  end  in 
so  relentless  and  yet  so  delightful  a  grasp;  and 
seeing  that  it  is  not  so  very  short  this  grip  is 
even  more  remarkable  than  in  mere  "  moments  " 
of  tale-telling  like  Mateo  Falcone  and  the  Re- 
doute.  Nor  should  we  omit  to  notice  the  peculiar 
mastery  of  Merimee's  management  of  his  role 
as  narrator  with  a  slight  touch  of  actor  as  well. 
The  conveniences  of  this  have  constantly  recom- 
mended it  to  tale-tellers  both  on  the  small  scale 
and  the  great;  its  inconveniences  have  perhaps 
only  dawned  on  them  when  it  was  too  late.  Meri- 
mee  is  rather  fond  of  it,  as  here,  in  the  Venus 
d'llle,  in  Lokis  and  elsewhere.  I  can  not  think 
of  a  single  instance  in  which  he  falls  or  even 
makes  a  false  step ;  and  it  is  only  necessary  to  set 
against  this  the  absolute  and  in  fact  confessed 
failure  of  Dickens  in  the  first  version  of  The 
Old  Curiosity  Shop  and  the  by  no  means  com- 
plete success  of  Mr.  Stevenson  in  The  Master 
of  Ballantrae. 

French  critics,  and  perhaps  some  later  Eng- 
lish critics  who  have  followed  them  have  been 
specially  interested  in  Arsene  Guillot.  The  rea- 
sons, more  and  less  convincing,  of  this  interest 
are  obvious  enough.  The  piece  is  Merimee's — 


INTRODUCTION  li 

that  is  almost  as  much  as  to  say  it  has  the  easy 
mastery,  the  almost  bewildering  completeness 
and  satisfaction  of  this  master.  But  it  displays 
these  traits  with  an  admixture  of  condescension 
to  the  weaker  vessels  and  brethren, — to  those 
who  want  something  of  impropriety  in  subject, 
something  of  conventional  satire  in  treatment. 
Merimee  did  sometimes  condescend;  and  he  has 
so  condescended  here.  But  he  has  not  conde- 
scended very  far  and  therefore,  naturally,  some 
say  that  he  has  not  condescended  far  enough, — 
that  Arsene  is  but  a  bread-and-butter  Magda- 
len ;  Madame  de  Piennes  a  weakling  "  beautif ul- 
soul-with-temptations "  ;  Max  a  wishy-washy 
Don  Juan.  I  do  not  agree  with  them,  but  I 
venture  to  take  their  grumbles  as  evidence  that 
Merimee  has  not  gained  very  much  by  his  con- 
descension. I  doubt  whether  anybody  ever  does. 
Tu  contra  audentior  ito  is  the  motto  in  art  al- 
most more  than  anywhere  else.  Not  that  I  want 
him  to  be  Zolaesque,  which  indeed  he  could  never 
have  been,  being  an  artist  first  and  last  of  all. 
But  his  business  was  not  with  the  peculiar 
mixture  of  satire  and  sentiment  which  consti- 
tutes the  appeal  here. 

UAbbe  Aubain,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a 
thoroughly  delightful  thing,  and  as  masterly  in 
reality  as  it  is  slight  in  appearance.  Its  interest 


lii  INTRODUCTION 

is  that  of  pure  irony,  though  irony  of  the  light- 
est and  most  delicate  nature;  and  as  all  the 
great  masters  of  irony  know  how  to  do,  it  is 
left  by  its  author  to  make  or  miss  its  own  way. 
If  they  duly  receive  new  writings  in  Elysium 
and  converse  about  them,  I  know  what  Lucian 
and  Rabelais  and  Swift  and  Fielding  (Thack- 
eray was  alive)  said  when  they  had  read  this 
little  sketch  of  the  romance  conjured  up  by  the 
lady,  and  the  sober  and  solid  benefit  received  by 
the  unsuspecting  and  prosaic  priest. 

In  II  Viccolo  di  Madama  Lucrezia  (written 
in  1846,  but  not  published  till  posthumously), 
the  appeals  are  more  complex,  and  perhaps  for 
that  reason,  I  do  not  know  that  it  has  ever 
become  a  great  favourite.  The  suggested  su- 
pernatural, neither  frankly  "  occultist,"  nor  ex- 
plained away  fully  in  the  Mrs.  Radcliffe  man- 
ner, appears  in  it,  and  this  is  an  element  which 
always  commends  itself  very  differently  to 
different  persons.*  I  think  very  highly  of  it 
myself,  and  in  connection  with  it,  I  may  mention 
the  remarkable  Djoumane  which  also  appeared 
with  the  Dernieres  Nouvelles,  after  being  pub- 
lished in  the  Moniteur,  and  the  exact  date  of 
which  is  unknown.  It  is  one  of  the  best  dream 

*  Some  might  say  that  it  is  fully  explained  here,  but  I  do  not 
think  that  Meriraee  meant  it  so. 


INTRODUCTION  liii 

stories  that  I  know,  and  in  particular  I  hardly 
know  one  that  effects  so  complete  a  triumph  in 
disguising  the  point  of  the  story  where  actuality 
passes  into  dream.  I  am  myself,  not  merely  a 
reader  of  stories  of  some  fifty  years'  standing, 
but  a  reviewer  of  them  through  more  than 
twenty;  and  I  do  not  think  I  am  very  easy  to 
deceive  on  such  a  point  as  this.  Yet  the  first 
time  that  I  read  Djoumane,  I  confess  that  I  was 
taken  in,  not  quite  to  the  end,  but  nearly  so. 

As  for  the  last  fruits  of  this  wonderful  tree, 
La  Chambre  Bleue  and  Lokis,  the  former  has 
been  carped  at  for  its  arrangement  and  the  lat- 
ter because  we  happen  to  know  that  Merimee 
had  at  one  time  thought  of  making  it  more  eccen- 
tric and  more  "  scabrous  "  than  it  is  now,  at  least 
on  the  surface.  But  this  latter  point  of  view 
is  accidental  and  illegitimate;  and  we  have  noth- 
ing to  do,  as  critics,  with  anything  but  the  tales 
as  they  are  actually  submitted  to  us.  And  they 
are  all  but  impeccable.  The  desideration  of  a 
different  ending  or  a  different  beginning  or  a 
different  middle  for  La  Chambre  Bleue  is  one 
of  these  critical  ineptitudes  for  which  there  are 
two  admirable  proverbial  phrases, — "  Seeking 
noon  at  fourteen  o'clock "  and  "  Asking  for 
better  bread  than  is  made  of  wheat."  Meri- 
mee, whose  knowledge  of  life,  if  not  coexten- 


liv  INTRODUCTION 

sive  with  life  itself  (whose  is?)  was  infallible 
where  it  extended,  has  taken  two  noted  facts 
of  life,  the  petty  disappointment  of  great  ex- 
pectations, and  the  curious  "  terrors  of  the 
night "  (for  which  in  French  there  is  an  un- 
translatable word,  affres)  and  has  based  his 
story  on  them.  Those  who  know  the  facts  will 
prize  the  story ;  of  those  who  do  not  know  them, 
one  does  not  really  know  whether  to  say  "  Lucky 
fellows!  "  or  "  Poor  creatures!  " 

Lokis  aims  higher.  I  should  call  it  in  all 
but  the  highest  degree  imaginative:  few  can  re- 
fuse it  the  epithet  of  fanciful  in  all  but  the 
highest.  In  these  highly  pitched  stories,  the 
great  difficulty  is  in  the  setting  of  the  key  at 
first,  no  doubt,  but  still  more  in  the  observation 
of  it  afterward.  To  my  thinking,  Merimee  has 
here  "  kept  the  keeping,"  restrained  his  foot 
from  ever  stepping  out  of  the  enchanted  circle, 
in  a  way  that  has  never  been  surpassed.  You 
could  not  have  a  better  teller  of  such  a  story  than 
the  matter-of-fact  but  by  no  means  milksop  or 
merely  pedantic  hunter  of  Lithuanian  irregular 
verbs;  you  could  not  put  the  setting  better;  you 
could  not  arrange  a  heroine  more  tempting  and 
more  provoking,  or  sketch  an  impossible-prob- 
able hero  more  convincingly.  Every  page  of 
the  history  is  a  miracle ;  but  the  greatest  miracles 


INTRODUCTION  lv 

of  all,  I  think,  are  the  Count's  acknowledgment 
of  his  (or  Lokis')  escapade  in  the  tree,  and  the 
episode  of  the  sorceress  and  the  "  land  of  the 
beasts  beyond  the  marsh."  The  Count,  we  are 
told,  was  never  seen  after  the  tragedy  in  the 
bridal  chamber;  but  we  know  where  he  went. 
I  am  not  sure,  however,  that  they  crowned  him 
successor  to  King  Noble. 

Finally,  we  have  to  turn  on  the  results  thus 
obtained  the  searchlight  of  the  Letters.  Those 
to  the  Inconnue  will  sufficiently  illustrate  what 
is  going  to  be  said,  for  the  average  reader; 
the  student  really  interested  in  Merimee  should 
not  miss  anything  yet  published,  although  the 
Lettres  a  une  Autre  Inconnue  have  the  least 
really  intimate  note  and  add  least  of  any  kind  to 
the  others.  Those  to  Panizzi,  perhaps,  give  most 
idea  of  the  capacity  for  solid  friendship,  quite 
apart  from  sentiment  or  passion,  which  is  so 
remarkable  a  feature  in  Merimee;  which  seemed 
during  his  lifetime  most  incredible  to  shallow 
and  superficial  observers;  and  which  supplies  a 
most  valuable  corrective,  even  for  those  who  do 
not  deserve  such  an  appellation,  of  the  slightly 
paraded  cynicism  of  some  of  his  creative  work. 
Those  to  Mrs.  Senior  give  the  most  poetical 
touches — it  is  here  that  we  find  that  exquisite 
piece  of  pathetic  humour,  the  story  of  the  mad- 


Ivi  INTRODUCTION 

man  who  kept  the  Princess  of  China  in  a  bottle, 
till  the  bottle  broke  (compare  La  Guzla  as  cited 
above).  Nor  is  there  anything  in  the  Inconnue 
letters  themselves  (which  are  too  sincere)  quite 
approaching  the  delicate  and  fantastic  flirtation 
of  these  same  letters  to  the  English  woman  who 
had  golden  hair,  and  whose  papier  rose  d'ou- 
tremer  gentiment  orne  des  mouches  was  war- 
ranted by  the  faculty  to  cure  the  most  obstinate 
neuralgia. 

I  think  myself  that  there  is  quant,  suff.  of 
seriousness  even  here.  There  can  be  no  reason- 
able doubt  of  it  as  to  the  Inconnue.  The  mystery 
about  the  individual  has  been  pretty  well  cleared 
up,  though  perhaps  future  generations  will 
know  more  details  about  the  personality  of  Mile. 
Jenny  Dacquin  than  we  do.  Such  knowledge, 
intensely  interesting  it  would  seem  to  some 
people,  is  less  so  to  others.  What  the  whole 
course  of  the  affair  was  and  meant,  why  they 
did  not  marry  (a  thing  which  has  puzzled  even 
Frenchmen,  less  apt  than  ourselves  to  see  in 
marriage  the  natural  goal  of  love) ,  and  other 
questions  I  leave  to  those  who  like  them.  But 
I  certainly  must  protest  against  the  opinion  of 
(I  think)  a  recent  Edinburgh  Reviewer  that  the 
lady  must  have  been  rather  a  nuisance.  Nobody 
perfect  in  love-lore,  or  even  (for  who  is  that?) 


INTRODUCTION  Ivii 

nobody  who  has  passed  the  lower  degrees  in  it, 
could  be  of  that  mind.  On  the  other  hand,  that 
Merimee  himself  was,  as  the  phrase  goes,  "  head 
over  ears  "  is  pretty  clear.  Some  at  least  of  the 
letters  are  among  the  most  perfect  love  letters 
with  which,  in  a  pretty  considerable  acquaint- 
ance with  the  class  of  literature  designated  and 
so  often  misdesignated  by  that  name,  I  have 
ever  been  able  to  acquaint  myself.  They  are  not, 
of  course,  extravagant,  or  lackadaisical;  they 
have  nothing  of  the  stale  pot-pourri  odour  about 
them,  which  seems  to  be  so  successful  in  sham 
collections  of  the  kind,  and  which  is  perhaps  not 
unknown  in  real  ones.  The  spirit  of  them  is 
passion,  not  sentiment,  and  long  afterward,  when 
(one  does  not  quite  know  how)  the  passion  has 
apparently  subsided,  the  vestiges  of  the  old 
flame  flash  and  glow  through  the  chit-chat  and 
the  commonplaces  of  age,  nay,  under  the  very 
shadow  and  chill  of  the  wings  of  the  Angel  of 
Death.  There  is  not  the  slightest  reason  to 
suppose  or  to  suspect  what  is  so  often  more 
than  suspected  in  epistolary  literature,  that  the 
writer,  if  not  exactly  writing  for  publication,  is, 
let  us  say,  taking  care  that  his  or  her  letters  shall 
not  be  absolutely  unprepared  for  that  experi- 
ence, if  it  should  come.  On  the  contrary,  it  is 
probable,  or  rather  certain,  that  the  bare  idea 


Iviii  INTRODUCTION 

of  such  publication  in  this  case  would  have  been 
horrible  to  Merimee.  Yet  we  can  hardly  blame 
Mile.  Dacquin,  even  if  we  were  not  bribed  by 
the  gift  she  has  bestowed  upon  us.  The  "  petty 
treason  "  of  revealing  this  thirty  years'  love,  has 
a  manifold  atonement — of  humour  in  the  spec- 
tacle of  this  sceptic's  enthusiasm  and  this  cynic's 
inamoration;  of  justice  in  its  reversal  of  a  false 
public  opinion;  of  coals-of-fire  even — for  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  Merimee  made  the  In- 
connue  even  more  unhappy  than  she  made  him 
and  with  far  less  excuse,  yet,  humanity  being 
humanity,  with  so  much  excuse  after  all! 

At  any  rate,  here  is  the  man  "  in  his  habit  as 
he  lived  "  in  the  one  sense,  as  opposed  to  the 
writer  in  his  habit  as  he  seemed  to  so  many,  in 
the  other.  A  man  assuredly  not  perfect;  nor  a 
proper  moral  man  by  any  means ;  not  a  religious 
one;  not  other  things  which  the  good  man  of 
the  modern  Stoics  ought  to  be.  A  man  with  a 
fancy  for  some  things  which  are  not  convenient; 
somewhat  (though  not  when  his  friends  were 
concerned)  self-indulgent;  by  no  means  over- 
inclined  to  swim  against  the  stream,  though  he 
could  do  this  too;  something  of  an  epicurean, 
though  not  so  much  as  he  seemed  to  be;  even 
less  of  a  cynic,  but  a  little  somewhat  of  that 
too.  Yet  a  man,  who  to  very  rare  gifts  of  in- 


INTRODUCTION  lix 

tellect  added  gifts  not  exactly  common  of  heart 
and  (I  must  ask  indulgence  for  a  minute)  even 
of  soul;  a  man  who  could  (in  the  old  Carry  le- 
Emerson  sense)  divine  very  much;  who  knew 
even  more;  and  lastly,  who  loved  more  than  all. 

From  mere  gusto  in  the  true  art  sense,  from 
mere  enjoyment  and  interest  in  the  things  of 
what  some  have  been  pleased  to  call  the  Coarse 
Arts,  to  actual  passion,  this  peculiarity  is  notice- 
able by  those  we  can  see  just  as  it  is  not  notice- 
able in  some  great  poets  and  prose-writers  who 
have  entirely  escaped  the  reputation  of  cynicism 
and  gained  that  of  being  very  good  men.  In- 
deed, Merimee's  surface  may  sometimes  show 
like  ice,  but  there  is  almost  always  fire  beneath, 
and  it  is  this  which  gives  him  his  peculiar  qual- 
ity— a  quality  not  more  noteworthy  in  his 
choice  and  handling  of  subjects  than  in  his 
style  itself. 

This  style  of  his  has  been  the  object  of  al- 
most universal  admiration  among  the  competent, 
the  only  reservations  having  been  made  by  those 
who,  like  Mr.  Pater,  had  a  somewhat  excessive 
fancy  for  the  "  precious,"  or  those  who,  like  Mr. 
Henley,  were  affected  in  the  same  way  toward 
the  "  strenuous."  For  both  of  these  classes  it 
may  be  a  little  too  quiet  and  plain,  too  cold,  and 
(as  statues  used  to  be  though  they  are  not  al- 


Ix  INTRODUCTION 

ways  now)  "  statuesque."  But  with  all  the  re- 
spect due  to  the  representative  persons  just 
named,  both  as  critics  and  friends,  I  venture  to 
think  both  mistaken.  Merimee's  style  is  as 
nearly  as  possible  faultless,  and  it  is  also,  in  ap- 
pearance, severely  restrained.  But  its  faultless- 
ness  is  never  of  the  kind  which  is  itself  faulty 
by  nullity — of  the  kind  that  almost  all  great 
critics  and  creators,  from  Longinus  to  Tenny- 
son, have  scouted  and  eschewed.  Nor  do  its 
restraint  and  its  polish  ever  imply  or  reach  im- 
potence or  insignificance.  The  old  simile  of  the 
ice-covered  volcano,  which  has  been  applied  else- 
where to  its  author,  is  almost  more  applicable 
to  him  as  a  pure  writer  than  in  any  other  func- 
tion, and  the  white  light  of  his  style  is  made  up 
of  easily  analysable  and  distinguishable  spectra 
of  the  most  vivid  and  iridescent  colour.  It  is 
in  this  heat  and  this  colour — kept  below  and 
behind,  but  only  a  little  behind  and  below 
the  surface  of  the  foreground — that  his  great 
idiosyncrasy  consists.  I  can  hardly  think  of  any 
other  writer  who  quite  comes  up  to  him  in  this 
respect,  though  there  are  points  of  resemblance 
in  Cardinal  Newman.  The  very  polished  styles 
are,  as  a  rule,  wanting  in  life  and  warmth,  the 
very  clear  styles,  in  colour  and  energy.  But 
Merimee's  lacks  none  of  these  good  things,  while 


INTRODUCTION  Ixi 

for  clearness  and  polish  themselves,  it  is  almost 
without  a  rival. 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  impossible  to 
better  the  selection  of  such  a  style  (even  if  most 
people  had  not  now  come  around  to  the  inevi- 
table identification  of  style  with  idiosyncrasy), 
for  Merimee's  subjects,  taking  these,  in  their 
quintessential  and  truly  literary  forms,  to  be 
prose  fiction  on  the  smaller  scale,  and  the  com- 
position of  passionate  or  familiar  letters.  For 
everywhere  in  both  of  these  departments,  there 
is  the  opportunity  for  the  blend  or  rather  the 
contrast  of  surface  and  subsoil  or  undercurrent, 
which  even  M.  d'Haussonville — by  no  means  a 
very  favourable,  and  I  think  sometimes  a  dis- 
tinctly mistaken  critic  of  Merimee — admits.  All 
satirists  live  upon  the  perception  and  the  ex- 
pression of  contrasts;  but  the  greater  and  more 
passionate  of  them  heighten  and  widen  the  con- 
trasts most  while  at  the  same  time  managing  to 
present  them  in  the  least  crude  or  staring  fash- 
ion. How  you  take  Merimee's  antinomies,  will 
of  course  depend  upon  taste  and  method.  M. 
d'Haussonville  thought  that  Merimee  was  per- 
petually "  out  of  sympathy  with  his  readers," 
was  at  least  perpetually  warning  them  not  to 
take  him  too  seriously.  For  myself,  I  can  see 
in  this  only  the  same  hopeless  blunder  as  that 


Ixii  INTRODUCTION 

of  those  who  think  "  Only  a  woman's  hair  "  an 
expression  of  callousness,  and  "  She  should  have 
died  hereafter  "  a  sign  that  Macbeth  had  lost 
all  affection  for  his  wife.  Swift  and  Shake- 
speare do  not  think  or  write  in  that  fashion; 
neither  does  Merimee.  There  are  two  ends  and 
two  sides  to  most  things,  and  if  you  will  take 
the  wrong  one,  it  is  not  the  fault  of  the  things 
themselves,  nor  of  their  creators,  but  yours.  So 
it  is  possible  for  anyone,  even  after  the  warn- 
ing of  the  Letters,  to  see  in  Colombo,  only  the 
old  Hume-and-Voltaire  ridicule  of  the  uncer- 
tainty of  human  conception  of  virtue  and  crime; 
in  Carmen,  mere  lampooning  of  the  wickedness 
of  women  and  the  weakness  of  men;  in  Arsene 
Guillot,  mere  Mephistophelanism,  everywhere 
the  cloven  foot  or  the  mere  detection  of  the 
cloven  foot. 

So  be  it.  But  those  who  are  of  another 
house,  while  perfectly  admitting,  perfectly  per- 
ceiving, the  "  colour  "  of  all  this  and  for  all  this 
which  exists,  will  take  it  to  be  in  the  other  sense 
merely  "  colourable  " — at  most  mainly  intended 
to  bring  out  and  set  off  and  express  things  very 
different.  They  will  use  the  implorer  of  those 
interviews  with  the  Inconnue  which  quite  evi- 
dently gave  Mephistopheles  no  occasion  for 
sniggering,  to  throw  light  on  the  methods  of 


INTRODUCTION  Ixiii 

the  supposed  satirist  of  love  and  materialist  in 
it.  They  will  not  mistake  the  constant  and  ap- 
parently irresistible  attraction  of  this  esprit  fort 
to  the  supernatural,  and  the  fact  that  in  no 
single  instance  where  the  supernatural  is  intro- 
duced is  it  introduced  to  be  ridiculed,  or  de- 
graded, or  rationalised,  or  even  smiled  at.  Per- 
haps they  will  go  even  farther  and  maintain 
that  Merimee,  for  all  his  open  breach  with  the 
personnel  of  the  Romantic  movement,  for  all 
his  jokes  at  local  colour,  and  the  rest,  all  his 
expressed  distaste  for  poetry,  all  the  fanfaron- 
nade  in  which  these  dreaders  of  dupery  so  often 
indulge,  remained  to  the  very  last  a  Romantic, 
pure,  hardened,  immutable  in  every  quality  ex- 
cept that  mere  outward  extravagance  which  is 
at  best  and  worst  but  a  very  separable  accident 
of  Romanticism.  Gautier,  though  much  more 
of  a  poet  and  therefore  more  of  an  idealist  than 
Merimee,  is  less  really  a  Romantic;  Hugo,  him- 
self, putting  extravagances  aside  and  once  more 
allowing  for  poetry,  is  not  more  so.  The  ex- 
treme outward  precision  of  Merimee's  style,  its 
horror  of  the  bombastic  and  the  dishevelled,  has 
no  doubt  deceived  some  as  to  the  presence  in 
him  of  the  Romantic  passion,  the  Romantic 
colour,  the  Romantic  vogue.  But  they  are  all 
there;  to  be  seen  by  whoso  chooses,  or  at  any 


Ixiv  INTRODUCTION 

rate   (for  perhaps  this  power  is  necessary)   by 
whoso  chooses  and  can. 

Therefore,  unless  I  myself  mistake  grossly, 
it  is  a  mistake  and  a  grave  one  to  speak  of  Meri- 
mee  as  having  no  "  soul,"  a  mistake  almost  as 
great  as  to  take  him  for  an  exponent  of  cynical 
disbelief  in  life  and  of  arid  and  limited  correct- 
ness in  literature.  His  work  at  its  best  always 
glows  with  "  earth-born  and  absolute  fire " ; 
his  life  often  palpitates  with  what  is  nothing 
less  than  tragedy.  This  word  is  often  used 
of  authors,  but  for  the  most  part  improperly. 
Dante's  life  and  career  are  serious,  they  are 
unprosperous  in  the  ordinary  sense,  but  they  are 
not  tragical  because  he  is  absolutely  victorious 
in  literature.  He  has  given  us  the  utmost  that  it 
was  in  him,  that  it  could  have  been  in  any  man, 
to  give.  Burns'  life  (to  take  an  example  as 
different  as  possible)  is  unprosperous  too,  is  in 
some  points  almost  sordid,  and  his  work  is  un- 
equal. But  he,  too,  has  undoubtedly  given  us 
of  the  best  which  he  had  to  give,  and  as  for  his 
life,  it  is  very  doubtful  whether  had  he  been 
consulted,  he  would  have  ordered  it  very  differ- 
ently. And  the  same  may  be  said  of  others. 
But  perhaps  two  only  of  the  Upper  House  of 
Letters  in  modern  times  leave  us  with  the  im- 
pression of  pure  tragedy,  of  the  state  and  situa- 


INTRODUCTION  Ixv 

tion  where  greatness  of  soul  and  of  position, 
greatness  of  accomplishment  and  deed,  does  not 
yet  prevent  the  true  tragic  a/m/jrto,  the  human 
frailty  and  failure,  the  "  rift  within  the  lute," 
from  marring  their  total  achievement  almost, 
altogether.  The  faults  in  the  two  cases,  though 
not  distantly  related  to  each  other,  are  different  ; 
but  the  result  upon  the  spectator  is,  as  at  least 
it  seems  to  me,  very  much  the  same  —  a  result  of 
immense  admiration,  of  general  (not  always 
detailed)  comprehension,  of  infinite  sympathy. 
And  the  names  of  the  heroes,  anticipated  of 
course  in  one  case,  should  be  in  both:  they  are 
Jonathan  Swift  and  Prosper  Merimee. 


C 


8  ETOH  TERRACE,  EDINBURGH, 
January,  1905. 


CARMEN 


CARMEN 


ccrriv,    x€l  oyaas 
Trjv  fjuav  iv  6aXdfJua,  rrfv  /wav  ev  6ava.r<a* 

PALLADAS. 


I  HAVE  always  suspected  the  geographical 
authorities  did  not  know  what  they  were 
talking  about  when  they  located  the  bat- 
tlefield of  Munda  in  the  county  of  the  Bastuli- 
Poeni,  close  to  the  modern  Monda,  some  two 
leagues  north  of  Marbella. 

According  to  my  own  surmise,  founded  on 
the  text  of  the  anonymous  author  of  the  Bellum 
Hispaniense,  and  on  certain  information  culled 
from  the  excellent  library  owned  by  the  Duke 
of  Ossuna,  I  believed  the  site  of  the  memorable 
struggle  in  which  Caesar  played  double  or  quits, 
once  and  for  all,  with  the  champions  of  the  Re- 
public, should  be  sought  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Montilla. 

Happening  to  be  in  Andalusia  during  the 

*  Every  woman  is  mere  bitterness,  but  she  has  two  good  moments  : 
one  is  when  on  her  couch,  the  other  when  in  her  grave. — Pallados. 

3 


4  CARMEN 

autumn  of  1830,  I  made  a  somewhat  lengthy 
excursion,  with  the  object  of  clearing  up  certain 
doubts  which  still  oppressed  me.  A  paper  which 
I  shall  shortly  publish  will,  I  trust,  remove  any 
hesitation  that  may  still  exist  in  the  minds  of 
all  honest  archaeologists.  But  before  that  dis- 
sertation of  mine  finally  settles  the  geographical 
problem  on  the  solution  of  which  the  whole 
of  learned  Europe  hangs,  I  desire  to  relate  a 
little  tale.  It  will  do  no  prejudice  to  the  interest- 
ing question  of  the  correct  locality  of  Monda. 

I  had  hired  a  guide  and  a  couple  of  horses 
at  Cordova,  and  had  started  on  my  way  with  no 
luggage  save  a  few  shirts,  and  Caesar's  Com- 
mentaries. As  I  wandered,  one  day,  across  the 
higher  lands  of  the  Cachena  plain,  worn  with 
fatigue,  parched  with  thirst,  scorched  by  a  burn- 
ing sun,  cursing  Csesar  and  Pompey's  sons  alike, 
most  heartily,  my  eye  lighted,  at  some  distance 
from  the  path  I  was  following,  on  a  little 
stretch  of  green  sward  dotted  with  reeds  and 
rushes.  That  betokened  the  neighbourhood  of 
some  spring,  and,  indeed,  as  I  drew  nearer  I 
perceived  that  what  had  looked  like  sward  was 
a  marsh,  into  which  a  stream,  which  seemed  to 
issue  from  a  narrow  gorge  between  two  high 
spurs  of  the  Sierra  di  Cabra,  ran  and  disap- 
peared. 


CARMEN  5 

If  I  rode  up  that  stream,  I  argued,  I  was 
likely  to  find  cooler  water,  fewer  leeches  and 
frogs,  and  mayhap  a  little  shade  among  the 
rocks. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  gorge,  my  horse  neighed, 
and  another  horse,  invisible  to  me,  neighed  back. 
Before  I  had  advanced  a  hundred  paces,  the 
gorge  suddenly  widened,  and  I  beheld  a  sort  of 
natural  amphitheatre,  thoroughly  shaded  by  the 
steep  cliffs  that  lay  all  around  it.  It  was  im- 
possible to  imagine  any  more  delightful  halting 
place  for  a  traveller.  At  the  foot  of  the  pre- 
cipitous rocks,  the  stream  bubbled  upward  and 
fell  into  a  little  basin,  lined  with  sand  that  was 
as  white  as  snow.  Five  or  six  splendid  ever- 
green oaks,  sheltered  from  the  wind,  and  cooled 
by  the  spring,  grew  beside  the  pool,  and  shaded 
it  with  their  thick  foliage.  And  round  about  it 
a  close  and  glossy  turf  offered  the  wanderer  a 
better  bed  than  he  could  have  found  in  any  hos- 
telry for  ten  leagues  round. 

The  honour  of  discovering  this  fair  spot  did 
not  belong  to  me.  A  man  was  resting  there 
already — sleeping,  no  doubt — before  I  reached 
it.  Roused  by  the  neighing  of  the  horses,  he 
had  risen  to  his  feet  and  had  moved  over  to  his 
mount,  which  had  been  taking  advantage  of  its 
master's  slumbers  to  make  a  hearty  feed  on  the 


6  CARMEN 

grass  that  grew  around.  He  was  an  active 
young  fellow,  of  middle  height,  but  powerful  in 
build,  and  proud  and  sullen-looking  in  expres- 
sion. His  complexion,  which  may  once  have 
been  fine,  had  been  tanned  by  the  sun  till  it  was 
darker  than  his  hair.  One  of  his  hands  grasped 
his  horse's  halter.  In  the  other  he  held  a  brass 
blunderbuss. 

At  the  first  blush,  I  confess,  the  blunderbuss, 
and  the  savage  looks  of  the  man  who  bore  it, 
somewhat  took  me  aback.  But  I  had  heard  so 
much  about  robbers,  that,  never  seeing  any,  I 
had  ceased  to  believe  in  their  existence.  And 
further,  I  had  seen  so  many  honest  farmers  arm 
themselves  to  the  teeth  before  they  went  out 
to  market,  that  the  sight  of  firearms  gave  me 
no  warrant  for  doubting  the  character  of  any 
stranger.  "  And  then,"  quoth  I  to  myself, 
"  what  could  he  do  with  my  shirts  and  my  Elze- 
vir edition  of  Caesar's  Commentaries?  "  So  I 
bestowed  a  friendly  nod  on  the  man  with  the 
blunderbuss,  and  inquired,  with  a  smile,  whether 
I  had  disturbed  his  nap.  Without  any  answer, 
he  looked  me  over  from  head  to  foot.  Then,  as 
if  the  scrutiny  had  satisfied  him,  he  looked  as 
closely  at  my  guide,  who  was  just  coming  up. 
I  saw  the  guide  turn  pale,  and  pull  up  with  an 
air  of  evident  alarm.  "  An  unlucky  meeting !  " 


CARMEN  7 

thought  I  to  myself.  But  prudence  instantly 
counselled  me  not  to  let  any  symptom  of  anxiety 
escape  me.  So  I  dismounted.  I  told  the  guide 
to  take  off  the  horses'  bridles,  and  kneeling  down 
beside  the  spring,  I  laved  my  head  and  hands 
and  then  drank  a  long  draught,  lying  flat  on 
my  belly,  like  Gideon's  soldiers. 

Meanwhile,  I  watched  the  stranger,  and  my 
own  guide.  This  last  seemed  to  come  forward 
unwillingly.  But  the  other  did  not  appear  to 
have  any  evil  designs  upon  us.  For  he  had 
turned  his  horse  loose,  and  the  blunderbuss, 
which  he  had  been  holding  horizontally,  was 
now  dropped  earthward. 

Not  thinking  it  necessary  to  take  offence  at 
the  scant  attention  paid  me,  I  stretched  myself 
full  length  upon  the  grass,  and  calmly  asked  the 
owner  of  the  blunderbuss  whether  he  had  a  light 
about  him.  At  the  same  time  I  pulled  out  my 
cigar-case.  The  stranger,  still  without  opening 
his  lips,  took  out  his  flint,  and  lost  no  time  in 
getting  me  a  light.  He  was  evidently  growing 
tamer,  for  he  sat  down  opposite  to  me,  though 
he  still  grasped  his  weapon.  When  I  had  lighted 
my  cigar,  I  chose  out  the  best  I  had  left,  and 
asked  him  whether  he  smoked. 

'  Yes,  senor,"  he  replied.  These  were  the 
first  words  I  had  heard  him  speak,  and  I  noticed 


8  CARMEN 

that  he  did  not  pronounce  the  letter  s*  in  the 
Andalusian  fashion,  whence  I  concluded  he  was 
a  traveller,  like  myself,  though,  maybe,  some- 
what less  of  an  archaeologist. 

'  You'll  find  this  a  fairly  good  one,"  said  I, 
holding  out  a  real  Havana  regalia. 

He  bowed  his  head  slightly,  lighted  his  cigar 
at  mine,  thanked  me  with  another  nod,  and 
began  to  smoke  with  a  most  lively  appearance 
of  enjoyment. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  blew  his  first 
puff  of  smoke  slowly  out  of  his  ears  and  nos- 
trils. "  What  a  time  it  is  since  I've  had  a 
smoke ! " 

In  Spain  the  giving  and  accepting  of  a  cigar 
establishes  bonds  of  hospitality  similar  to  those 
founded  in  Eastern  countries  on  the  partaking 
of  bread  and  salt.  My  friend  turned  out  more 
talkative  than  I  had  hoped.  However,  though 
he  claimed  to  belong  to  the  partido  of  Montilla, 
he  seemed  very  ill-informed  about  the  country. 
He  did  not  know  the  name  of  the  delightful  val- 
ley in  which  we  were  sitting,  he  could  not  tell 
me  the  names  of  any  of  the  neighbouring  vil- 
lages, and  when  I  inquired  whether  he  had  not 

*  The  Andalusians  aspirate  the  s,  and  pronounce  it  like  the  soft  c  and 
the  2,  which  Spaniards  pronounce  like  the  English  th.  An  Andalusian 
may  always  be  recognised  by  the  way  in  which  he  says  senar. 


CARMEN  9 

noticed  any  broken-down  walls,  broad-rimmed 
tiles,  or  carved  stones  in  the  vicinity,  he  confessed 
he  had  never  paid  any  heed  to  such  matters.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  showed  himself  an  expert  in 
horseflesh,  found  fault  with  my  mount — not  a 
difficult  affair — and  gave  me  the  pedigree  of  his 
own,  which  had  come  from  the  famous  stud  at 
Cordova.  It  was  a  splendid  creature,  indeed,  so 
tough,  according  to  its  owner's  claim,  that  it  had 
once  covered  thirty  leagues  in  one  day,  either 
at  a  gallop  or  at  full  trot  the  whole  time.  In 
the  midst  of  his  story  the  stranger  pulled  up 
short,  as  if  startled  and  sorry  he  had  said  so 
much.  '  The  fact  is  I  was  in  a  great  hurry  to 
get  to  Cordova,"  he  went  on,  somewhat  embar- 
rassed. "  I  had  to  petition  the  judges  about  a 
lawsuit."  As  he  spoke,  he  looked  at  my  guide, 
Antonio,  who  had  dropped  his  eyes. 

The  spring  and  the  cool  shade  were  so  de- 
lightful that  I  bethought  me  of  certain  slices  of 
an  excellent  ham,  which  my  friends  at  Montilla 
had  packed  into  my  guide's  wallet.  I  bade  him 
produce  them,  and  invited  the  stranger  to  share 
our  impromptu  lunch.  If  he  had  not  smoked 
for  a  long  time,  he  certainly  struck  me  as  hav- 
ing fasted  for  eight-and-forty  hours  at  the  very 
least.  He  ate  like  a  starving  wolf,  and  I  thought 
to  myself  that  my  appearance  must  really  have 


10  CARMEN 

been  quite  providential  for  the  poor  fellow. 
Meanwhile  my  guide  ate  but  little,  drank  still 
less,  and  spoke  never  a  word,  although  in  the 
earlier  part  of  our  journey  he  had  proved  him- 
self a  most  unrivalled  chatterer.  He  seemed  ill 
at  ease  in  the  presence  of  our  guest,  and  a  sort 
of  mutual  distrust,  the  cause  of  which  I  could 
not  exactly  fathom,  seemed  to  lie  between 
them. 

The  last  crumbs  of  bread  and  scraps  of  ham 
had  disappeared.  We  had  each  smoked  our  sec- 
ond cigar;  I  told  the  guide  to  bridle  the  horses, 
and  was  just  about  to  take  leave  of  my  new 
friend,  when  he  inquired  where  I  was  going  to 
spend  the  night. 

Before  I  had  time  to  notice  a  sign  my  guide 
was  making  to  me  I  had  replied  that  I  was 
going  to  the  Venta  del  Cuervo. 

'  That's  a  bad  lodging  for  a  gentleman 
like  you,  sir!  I'm  bound  there  myself,  and  if 
you'll  allow  me  to  ride  with  you,  we'll  go 
together." 

"With  pleasure!"  I  replied,  mounting  my 
horse.  The  guide,  who  was  holding  my  stirrup, 
looked  at  me  meaningly  again.  I  answered  by 
shrugging  my  shoulders,  as  though  to  assure 
him  I  was  perfectly  easy  in  my  mind,  and  we 
started  on  our  way. 


CARMEN  11 

Antonio's  mysterious  signals,  his  evident 
anxiety,  a  few  words  dropped  by  the  stranger, 
above  all,  his  ride  of  thirty  leagues,  and  the  far 
from  plausible  explanation  he  had  given  us  of 
it,  had  already  enabled  me  to  form  an  opinion 
as  to  the  identity  of  my  fellow-traveller.  I  had 
no  doubt  at  all  I  was  in  the  company  of  a 
smuggler,  and  possibly  of  a  brigand.  What 
cared  I?  I  knew  enough  of  the  Spanish  char- 
acter to  be  very  certain  I  had  nothing  to  fear 
from  a  man  who  had  eaten  and  smoked  with  me. 
His  very  presence  would  protect  me  in  case  of 
any  undesirable  meeting.  And  besides,  I  was 
very  glad  to  know  what  a  brigand  was  really 
like.  One  doesn't  come  across  such  gentry  every 
day.  And  there  is  a  certain  charm  about  find- 
ing one's  self  in  close  proximity  to  a  dangerous 
being,  especially  when  one  feels  the  being  in 
question  to  be  gentle  and  tame. 

I  was  hoping  the  stranger  might  gradually 
fall  into  a  confidential  mood,  and  in  spite  of  my 
guide's  winks,  I  turned  the  conversation  to  the 
subject  of  highwaymen.  I  need  scarcely  say 
that  I  spoke  of  them  with  great  respect.  At 
that  time  there  was  a  famous  brigand  in  Anda- 
lusia, of  the  name  of  Jose-Maria,  whose  exploits 
were  on  every  lip.  "  Supposing  I  should  be  rid- 
ing along  with  Jose-Maria!"  said  I  to  myself. 


12  CARMEN 

I  told  all  the  stories  I  knew  about  the  hero — 
they  were  all  to  his  credit,  indeed,  and  loudly 
expressed  my  admiration  of  his  generosity  and 
his  valour. 

"  Jose-Maria  is  nothing  but  a  blackguard,'* 
said  the  stranger  gravely. 

"  Is  he  just  to  himself,  or  is  this  an  excess 
of  modesty? "  I  queried,  mentally,  for  by  dint 
of  scrutinising  my  companion,  I  had  ended  by 
reconciling  his  appearance  with  the  description 
of  Jose-Maria  which  I  read  posted  up  on  the 
gates  of  various  Andalusian  towns.  '  Yes,  this 
must  be  he — fair  hair,  blue  eyes,  large  mouth, 
good  teeth,  small  hands,  fine  shirt,  a  velvet 
jacket  with  silver  buttons  on  it,  white  leather 
gaiters,  and  a  bay  horse.  Not  a  doubt  about 
it.  But  his  incognito  shall  be  respected!" 
We  reached  the  venta.  It  was  just  what  he 
had  described  to  me.  In  other  words,  the  most 
wretched  hole  of  its  kind  I  had  as  yet  beheld. 
One  large  apartment  served  as  kitchen,  dining- 
room,  and  sleeping  chamber.  A  fire  was  burn- 
ing on  a  flat  stone  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
and  the  smoke  escaped  through  a  hole  in  the 
roof,  or  rather  hung  in  a  cloud  some  feet  above 
the  soil.  Along  the  walls  five  or  six  old  mule 
rugs  were  spread  on  the  floor.  These  were  the 
travellers'  beds.  Twenty  paces  from  the  house, 


CARMEN  13 

or  rather  from  the  solitary  apartment  which  I 
have  just  described,  stood  a  sort  of  shed,  that 
served  for  a  stable. 

The  only  inhabitants  of  this  delightful  dwell- 
ing visible  at  the  moment,  at  all  events,  were  an 
old  woman,  and  a  little  girl  ten  or  twelve 
years  old,  both  of  them  as  black  as  soot,  and 
dressed  in  loathsome  rags.  "  Here's  the  sole 
remnant  of  the  ancient  populations  of  Munda 
Bcetica,"  said  I  to  myself.  "  O  Cassar!  O  Sex- 
tus  Pompeius,  if  you  were  to  revisit  this  earth 
how  astounded  you  would  be  I" 

When  the  old  woman  saw  my  travelling  com- 
panion an  exclamation  of  surprise  escaped  her. 
"Ah!  Senor  Don  Jose!"  she  cried. 

Don  Jose  frowned  and  lifted  his  hand  with 
a  gesture  of  authority  that  forthwith  silenced 
the  old  dame. 

I  turned  to  my  guide  and  gave  him  to 
understand,  by  a  sign  that  no  one  else  perceived, 
that  I  knew  all  about  the  man  in  whose  company 
I  was  about  to  spend  the  night.  Our  supper  was 
better  than  I  expected.  On  a  little  table,  only  a 
foot  high,  we  were  served  with  an  old  rooster, 
fricasseed  with  rice  and  numerous  peppers,  then 
more  peppers  in  oil,  and  finally  a  gaspacho — a 
sort  of  salad  made  of  peppers.  These  three 
highly  spiced  dishes  involved  our  frequent  re- 


14  CARMEN 

course  to  a  goatskin  filled  with  Montella  wine, 
which  struck  us  as  being  delicious. 

After  our  meal  was  over,  I  caught  sight  of 
a  mandolin  hanging  up  against  the  wall — in 
Spain  you  see  mandolins  in  every  corner — and 
I  asked  the  little  girl,  who  had  been  waiting  on 
us,  if  she  knew  how  to  play  it. 

"  No,"  she  replied.  "  But  Don  Jose  does 
play  well! " 

"  Do  me  the  kindness  to  sing  me  something," 
I  said  to  him,  "  I'm  passionately  fond  of  your 
national  music." 

"  I  can't  refuse  to  do  anything  for  such  a 
charming  gentleman,  who  gives  me  such  excel- 
lent cigars,"  responded  Don  Jose  gaily,  and 
having  made  the  child  give  him  the  mandolin, 
he  sang  to  his  own  accompaniment.  His  voice, 
though  rough,  was  pleasing,  the  air  he  sang  was 
strange  and  sad.  As  to  the  words,  I  could  not 
understand  a  single  one  of  them. 

"  If  I  am  not  mistaken,"  said  I,  "  that's  not 
a  Spanish  air  you  have  just  been  singing.  It's 
like  the  zorzicos  I've  heard  in  the  Provinces,* 
and  the  words  must  be  in  the  Basque  language." 

"  Yes,"  said  Don  Jose,  with  a  gloomy  look. 

*  The  privileged  Provinces,  Alava,  Biscay,  Guipuzcoa,  and  a  part  of 
Navarre,  which  all  enjoy  special  fueros.  The  Basque  language  is  spoken 
in  these  countries. 


CARMEN  15 

He  laid  the  mandolin  down  on  the  ground,  and 
began  staring  with  a  peculiarly  sad  expression 
at  the  dying  fire.  His  face,  at  once  fierce  and 
noble-looking,  reminded  me,  as  the  firelight  fell 
on  it,  of  Milton's  Satan.  Like  him,  perchance, 
my  comrade  was  musing  over  the  home  he  had 
forfeited,  the  exile  he  had  earned,  by  some  mis- 
deed. I  tried  to  revive  the  conversation,  but  so 
absorbed  was  he  in  melancholy  thought,  that  he 
gave  me  no  answer. 

The  old  woman  had  already  gone  to  rest  in 
a  corner  of  the  room,  behind  a  ragged  rug  hung 
on  a  rope.  The  little  girl  had  followed  her  into 
this  retreat,  sacred  to  the  fair  sex.  Then  my 
guide  rose,  and  suggested  that  I  should  go  with 
him  to  the  stable.  But  at  the  word  Don  Jose, 
waking,  as  it  were,  with  a  start,  inquired  sharply 
whither  he  was  going.  „ 

"  To  the  stable,"  answered  my  guide. 

"  What  for?  the  horses  have  been  fed!  You 
can  sleep  here.  The  senor  will  give  you  leave." 

"  I'm  afraid  the  senor's  horse  is  sick.  I'd 
like  the  senor  to  see  it.  Perhaps  he'd  know  what 
should  be  done  for  it." 

It  was  quite  clear  to  me  that  Antonio  wanted 
to  speak  to  me  apart. 

But  I  did  not  care  to  rouse  Don  Jose's  sus- 
picions, and  being  as  we  were,  I  thought  far  the 


16  CARMEN 

wisest  course  for  me  was  to  appear  absolutely 
confident. 

I  therefore  told  Antonio  that  I  knew  noth- 
ing on  earth  about  horses,  and  that  I  was  des- 
perately sleepy.  Don  Jose  followed  him  to  the 
stable,  and  soon  returned  alone.  He  told  me 
there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  the  horse,  but 
that  my  guide  considered  the  animal  such  a 
treasure  that  he  was  scrubbing  it  with  his  jacket 
to  make  it  sweat,  and  expected  to  spend  the 
night  in  that  pleasing  occupation.  Meanwhile 
I  had  stretched  myself  out  on  the  mule  rugs, 
having  carefully  wrapped  myself  up  in  my  own 
cloak,  so  as  to  avoid  touching  them.  Don  Jose, 
having  begged  me  to  excuse  the  liberty  he  took 
in  placing  himself  so  near  me,  lay  down  across 
the  door,  but  not  until  he  had  primed  his  blun- 
derbuss afresh  and  carefully  laid  it  under  the 
wallet,  which  served  him  as  a  pillow. 

I  had  thought  I  was  so  tired  that  I  should 
be  able  to  sleep  even  in  such  a  lodging.  But 
within  an  hour  a  most  unpleasant  itching  sensa- 
tion roused  me  from  my  first  nap.  As  soon  as  I 
realised  its  nature,  I  rose  to  my  feet,  feeling  con- 
vinced I  should  do  far  better  to  spend  the  rest 
of  the  night  in  the  open  air  than  beneath  that 
inhospitable  roof.  Walking  tiptoe  I  reached 
the  door,  stepped  over  Don  Jose,  who  was  sleep- 


CARMEN  17 

ing  the  sleep  of  the  just,  and  managed  so  well 
that  I  got  outside  the  building  without  waking 
him.  Just  beside  the  door  there  was  a  wide 
wooden  bench.  I  lay  down  upon  it,  and  settled 
myself,  as  best  I  could,  for  the  remainder  of  the 
night.  I  was  just  closing  my  eyes  for  the  sec- 
ond time  when  I  fancied  I  saw  the  shadow  of  a 
man  and  then  the  shadow  of  a  horse  moving 
absolutely  noiselessly,  one  behind  the  other.  I 
sat  upright,  and  then  I  thought  I  recognised 
Antonio.  Surprised  to  see  him  outside  the  stable 
at  such  an  hour,  I  got  up  and  went  toward  him. 
He  had  seen  me  first,  and  had  stopped  to  wait 
for  me. 

''  Where  is  he? "  Antonio  inquired  in  a 
low  tone. 

"  In  the  venta.  He's  asleep.  The  bugs  don't 
trouble  him.  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
that  horse? "  I  then  noticed  that,  to  stifle  all 
noise  as  he  moved  out  of  the  shed,  Antonio  had 
carefully  muffled  the  horse's  feet  in  the  rags  of 
an  old  blanket. 

"  Speak  lower,  for  God's  sake,"  said  An- 
tonio. '  You  don't  know  who  that  man  is.  He's 
Jose  Navarro,  the  most  noted  bandit  in  Anda- 
lusia. I've  been  making  signs  to  you  all  day 
long,  and  you  wouldn't  understand." 

"  What  do  I  care  whether  he's  a  brigand  or 


18  CARMEN 

not,"  I  replied.    "  He  hasn't  robbed  us,  and  I'll 
wager  he  doesn't  want  to." 

;<  That  may  be.  But  there  are  two  hundred 
ducats  on  his  head.  Some  lancers  are  stationed 
in  a  place  I  know,  a  league  and  a  half  from  here, 
and  before  daybreak  I'll  bring  a  few  brawny 
fellows  back  with  me.  I'd  have  taken  his  horse 
away,  but  the  brute's  so  savage  that  nobody  but 
Navarro  can  go  near  it." 

"Devil  take  you!"  I  cried.  "What  harm 
has  the  poor  fellow  done  you  that  you  should 
want  to  inform  against  him?  And'  besides,  are 
you  certain  he  is  the  brigand  you  take  him  for?  " 

"  Perfectly  certain!  He  came  after  me  into 
the  stable  just  now,  and  said, '  You  seem  to  know 
me.  If  you  tell  that  good  gentleman  who  I  am, 
I'll  blow  your  brains  out! '  You  stay  here,  sir, 
keep  close  to  him.  You've  nothing  to  fear.  As 
long  as  he  knows  you  are  there,  he  won't  suspect 
anything." 

As  we  talked,  we  had  moved  so  far  from  the 
venta  that  the  noise  of  the  horse's  hoofs  could 
not  be  heard  there.  In  a  twinkling  Antonio 
snatched  off  the  rags  he  had  wrapped  around 
the  creature's  feet,  and  was  just  about  to  climb 
on  its  back.  In  vain  did  I  attempt  with  prayers'" 
and  threats  to  restrain  him. 

"  I'm  only  a  poor  man,  sefior,"  quoth  he, 


CARMEN  19 

"  I  can't  afford  to  lose  two  hundred  ducats — 
especially  when  I  shall  earn  them  by  ridding  the 
country  of  such  vermin.  But  mind  what  you're 
about!  If  Navarro  wakes  up,  he'll  snatch  at 
his  blunderbuss,  and  then  look  out  for  yourself! 
I've  gone  too  far  now  to  turn  back.  Do  the 
best  you  can  for  yourself! " 

The  villain  was  in  his  saddle  already,  he 
spurred  his  horse  smartly,  and  I  soon  lost  sight 
of  them  both  in  the  darkness. 

I  was  very  angry  with  my  guide,  and  ter- 
ribly alarmed  as  well.  After  a  moment's  reflec- 
tion, I  made  up  my  mind,  and  went  back  to  the 
venta.  Don  Jose  was  still  sound  asleep,  making 
up,  no  doubt,  for  the  fatigue  and  sleeplessness 
of  several  days  of  adventure.  I  had  to  shake 
him  roughly  before  I  could  wake  him  up.  Never 
shall  I  forget  his  fierce  look,  and  the  spring  he 
made  to  get  hold  of  his  blunderbuss,  which,  as 
a  precautionary  measure,  I  had  removed  to  some 
distance  from  his  couch. 

"  Senor,"  I  said,  "  I  beg  your  pardon  for 
disturbing  you.  But  I  have  a  silly  question  to 
ask  you.  Would  you  be  glad  to  see  half  a  dozen 
lancers  walk  in  here? " 

He  bounded  to  his  feet,  and  in  an  awful  voice 
he  demanded: 

"  Who  told  you? " 


20  CARMEN 

"  It's  little  matter  whence  the  warning  comes, 
so  long  as  it  be  good." 

"  Your  guide  has  betrayed  me — but  he  shall 
pay  for  it!  Where  is  he?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  In  the  stable,  I  fancy.  But 
somebody  told  me " 

"Who  told  you?  It  can't  be  the  old 
hag- 

"  Some  one  I  don't  know.  Without  more 
parleying,  tell  me,  yes  or  no,  have  you  any  rea- 
son for  not  waiting  till  the  soldiers  come?  If 
you  have  any,  lose  no  time!  If  not,  good-night 
to  you,  and  forgive  me  for  having  disturbed 
your  slumbers! " 

"Ah,  your  guide!  your  guide!  I  had  my 
doubts  of  him  at  first — but — I'll  settle  with  him! 
Farewell,  senor.  May  God  reward  you  for  the 
service  I  owe  you!  I  am  not  quite  so  wicked 
as  you  think  me.  Yes,  I  still  have  something 
in  me  that  an  honest  man  may  pity.  Farewell, 
senor!  I  have  only  one  regret — that  I  can  not 
pay  my  debt  to  you!  " 

"  As  a  reward  for  the  service  I  have  done 
you,  Don  Jose,  promise  me  you'll  suspect  no- 
body— nor  seek  for  vengeance.  Here  are  some 
cigars  for  your  journey.  Good  luck  to  you." 
And  I  held  out  my  hand  to  him. 

He  squeezed  it,  without  a  word,  took  up  his 


"  Here  are  some  cigars  tor  your  journey.      Good 
luck  to  you."      And  I  held  out  mv  hand  to  him. 
Etched  by  A.  Nargeot  from  a  drawing  by  S.  Arcos. 


20  i  N 

*ru~  whence  the  warning  comes, 


•*j.e  ijfuufe  has  betrayed  me   --but  he  shall 
jj*>  f«*r  «tt    Where  is  he?  " 

i  don't  know.    In  tht  st*i>lr.  I  f^ncy     But 
•**wbody  told  me-- 

"Who  told  you?  It  cunt  bt  (fee  old 
hag  - 

"  Some  one  I  don't  know.  Without  *nore 
parleying,  tell  me,  yes  or  no,  have  you  any  rea- 
son for  not  waiting  till  the  soldiers  come?  If 
you  have  any,  lose  no  time!  If  not,  good-night 
to  you,  and  forgive  me  for  having  disturbed 
your  slumbers!  " 

.  "  Ah,  your  guide  !  your  guide  !  I  had  my 
doubts  of  him  at  first  —  but  —  I'll  settle  with  him! 
Farewell,  senor.  May  God  reward  you  for  the 
service  I  «wr  yon!  I  am  not  quite  sn  wicked 
a&  you  think  tat*.  Yen*  I  still  have  ^u 
in  ??^  that  an  honest  riiutj  may  f»?*v 
seAm  '  I  have  only  one  regjvt  iijf»f  J 
pay  m>  «^fci  t/>  you!  ' 

"  A*  »  *i''*fi&fd  for  the  servin*  !  rjure  done 
you,  Don  JOM-,  $>rc*iwie  ine  ymi  II  =«i.^»«!t  no- 
bod— -nor  seek  for  Iltrt  are  some 


vour  j(Hii«-.^\-      IT  ^*i    uc     to,  you. 

'(111)7  -    Mfi  -JlVH 


li 


e 


CARMEN  21 

wallet  and  blunderbuss,  and  after  saying  a  few 
words  to  the  old  woman  in  a  lingo  that  I  could 
not  understand,  he  ran  out  to  the  shed.  A  few 
minutes  later  I  heard  him  galloping  out  into  the 
country. 

As  for  me,  I  lay  down  again  on  my  bench, 
but  I  did  not  go  to  sleep  again.  I  queried  in 
my  own  mind  whether  I  had  done  right  to  save 
a  robber,  and  possibly  a  murderer,  from  the  gal- 
lows, simply  and  solely  because  I  had  eaten  ham 
and  rice  in  his  company.  Had  I  not  betrayed 
my  guide,  who  was  supporting  the  cause  of  law 
and  order?  Had  I  not  exposed  him  to  a  ruffian's 
vengeance?  But  then,  what  about  the  laws  of 
hospitality? 

"  A  mere  savage  prejudice,"  said  I  to  my- 
self. "  I  shall  have  to  answer  for  all  the  crimes 
this  brigand  may  commit  in  future."  Yet  is 
that  instinct  of  the  conscience  which  resists  every 
argument  really  a  prejudice?  It  may  be  I  could 
not  have  escaped  from  the  delicate  position  in 
which  I  found  myself  without  remorse  of  some 
kind.  I  was  still  tossed  to  and  fro,  in  the 
greatest  uncertainty  as  to  the  morality  of  my 
behaviour,  when  I  saw  half  a  dozen  horsemen 
ride  up,  with  Antonio  prudently  lagging  behind 
them.  I  went  to  meet  them,  and  told  them  the 
brigand  had  fled  over  two  hours  previously  The 


22  CARMEN 

old  woman,  when  she  was  questioned  by  the  ser- 
geant, admitted  that  she  knew  Navarro,  but  said 
that  living  alone,  as  she  did,  she  would  never 
have  dared  to  risk  her  life  by  informing  against 
him.  She  added  that  when  he  came  to  her  house, 
he  habitually  went  away  in  the  middle  of  the 
night.  I,  for  my  part,  was  made  to  ride  to  a 
place  some  leagues  away,  where  I  showed  my 
passport,  and  signed  a  declaration  before  the 
Alcalde.  This  done,  I  was  allowed  to  recom- 
mence my  archaeological  investigations.  An- 
tonio was  sulky  with  me;  suspecting  it  was  I 
who  had  prevented  his  earning  those  two  hun- 
dred ducats.  Nevertheless,  we  parted  good 
friends  at  Cordova,  where  I  gave  him  as  large 
a  gratuity  as  the  state  of  my  finances  would 
permit. 


II 


I  SPENT  several  days  at  Cordova.  I  had 
been  told  of  a  certain  manuscript  in  the  library 
of  the  Dominican  convent  which  was  likely  to 
furnish  me  with  very  interesting  details  about 
the  ancient  Munda.  The  good  fathers  gave  me 
the  most  kindly  welcome.  I  spent  the  daylight 
hours  within  their  convent,  and  at  night  I  walked 
about  the  town.  At  Cordova  a  great  many 


CARMEN  23 

idlers  collect,  toward  sunset,  on  the  quay  that 
runs  along  the  right  bank  of  the  Guadalquivir. 
Promenaders  on  the  spot  have  to  breathe  the 
odour  of  a  tanyard  which  still  keeps  up  the  an- 
cient fame  of  the  country  in  connection  with  the 
curing  of  leather.  But  to  atone  for  this,  they 
enjoy  a  sight  which  has  a  charm  of  its  own.  A 
few  minutes  before  the  Angelus  bell  rings,  a 
great  company  of  women  gathers  beside  the 
river,  just  below  the  quay,  which  is  rather  a  high 
one.  Not  a  man  would  dare  to  join  its  ranks. 
The  moment  the  Angelus  rings,  darkness  is  sup- 
posed to  have  fallen.  As  the  last  stroke  sounds, 
all  the  women  disrobe  and  step  into  the  water. 
Then  there  is  laughing  and  screaming,  and  a 
wonderful  clatter.  The  men  on  the  upper  quay 
watch  the  bathers,  straining  their  eyes,  and  see- 
ing very  little.  Yet  the  white  uncertain  outlines 
perceptible  against  the  dark-blue  waters  of  the 
stream  stir  the  poetic  mind,  and  the  possessor  of 
a  little  fancy  finds  it  not  difficult  to  imagine  that 
Diana  and  her  nymphs  are  bathing  below,  while 
he  himself  runs  no  risk  of  ending  like  Acteon. 

I  have  been  told  that  one  day  a  party  of 
good-for-nothing  fellows  banded  themselves  to- 
gether, and  bribed  the  bell-ringer  at  the  cathe- 
dral to  ring  the  Angelus  some  twenty  minutes 
before  the  proper  hour.  Though  it  was  still 


24  CARMEN 

broad  daylight,  the  nymphs  of  the  Guadalquivir 
never  hesitated,  and  putting  far  more  trust  in 
the  Angelus  bell  than  in  the  sun,  they  proceeded 
to  their  bathing  toilette — always  of  the  simplest 
— with  an  easy  conscience.  I  was  not  present 
on  that  occasion.  In  my  day,  the  bell-ringer 
was  incorruptible,  the  twilight  was  very  dim, 
and  nobody  but  a  cat  could  have  distinguished 
the  difference  between  the  oldest  orange  woman, 
and  the  prettiest  shop-girl,  in  Cordova. 

One  evening  after  it  had  grown  quite  dusk, 
I  was  leaning  over  the  parapet  of  the  quay, 
smoking,  when  a  woman  came  up  the  steps  lead- 
ing from  the  river,  and  sat  down  near  me.  In 
her  hair  she  wore  a  great  bunch  of  jasmine — a 
flower  which,  at  night,  exhales  a  most  intoxicat- 
ing perfume.  She  was  dressed  simply,  almost 
poorly,  in  black,  as  most  work-girls  are  dressed 
in  the  evening.  Women  of  the  richer  class  only 
wear  black  in  the  daytime,  at  night  they  dress 
a  la  francesa.  When  she  drew  near  me,  the 
woman  let  the  mantilla  which  had  covered  her 
head  drop  on  her  shoulders,  and  "  by  the  dim 
light  falling  from  the  stars  "  I  perceived  her  to 
be  young,  short  in  stature,  well-proportioned, 
and  with  very  large  eyes.  I  threw  my  cigar 
away  at  once.  She  appreciated  this  mark  of 
courtesy,  essentially  French,  and  hastened  to  irv- 


CARMEN  25 

form  me  that  she  was  very  fond  of  the  smell  of 
tobacco,  and  that  she  even  smoked  herself,  when 
she  could  get  very  mild  papelitos.  I  fortunately 
happened  to  have  some  such  in  my  case,  and  at 
once  offered  them  to  her.  She  condescended  to 
take  one,  and  lighted  it  at  a  burning  string 
which  a  child  brought  us,  receiving  a  copper  for 
its  pains.  We  mingled  our  smoke,  and  talked 
so  long,  the  fair  lady  and  I,  that  we  ended  by 
being  almost  alone  upon  the  quay.  I  thought 
I  might  venture,  without  impropriety,  to  sug- 
gest our  going  to  eat  an  ice  at  the  neveria.* 
After  a  moment  of  modest  demur,  she  agreed. 
But  before  finally  accepting,  she  desired  to  know 
what  o'clock  it  was.  I  struck  my  repeater,  and 
this  seemed  to  astound  her  greatly. 

'  What  clever  inventions  you  foreigners  do 
have!  What  country  do  you  belong  to,  sir? 
You're  an  Englishman,  no  doubt!  "  f 

"  I'm  a  Frenchman,  and  your  devoted  ser- 
vant. And  you,  senorita,  or  senora,  you  prob- 
ably belong  to  Cordova? " 

"  No." 

*A  cafe  to  which  a  depot  of  ice,  or  rather  of  snow,  is  attached. 
There  is  hardly  a  village  in  Spain  without  its  neveria. 

f  Every  traveller  in  Spain  who  does  not  carry  about  samples  of 
calicoes  and  silks  is  taken  for  an  Englishman  (inglesito).  It  is  the 
same  thing  in  the  East.  At  Chalcis  I  had  the  honour  of  being 
announced  as  a  M<Aty>8o<r  */Ku>rj<oor. 


26  CARMEN 

"  At  all  events,  you  are  an  Andalusian? 
Your  soft  way  of  speaking  makes  me  think  so." 

"If  you  notice  people's  accent  so  closely, 
you  must  be  able  to  guess  what  I  am." 

"  I  think  you  are  from  the  country  of  Jesus, 
two  paces  out  of  Paradise." 

I  had  learned  this  metaphor,  which  stands 
for  Andalusia,  from  my  friend  Francisco  Se- 
villa,  a  well-known  picador. 

"  Pshaw !  The  people  here  say  there  is  no 
place  in  Paradise  for  us! " 

:<  Then  perhaps  you  are  of  Moorish  blood — 

or "  I  stopped,  not  venturing  to  add  "  a 

Jewess." 

"Oh  come!  You  must  see  I'm  a  gipsy! 
Wouldn't  you  like  me  to  tell  you  la  baji?  *  Did 
you  never  hear  tell  of  Carmencita?  That's  who 
I  am!" 

I  was  such  a  miscreant  in  those  days — now 
fifteen  years  ago — that  the  close  proximity  of  a 
sorceress  did  not  make  me  recoil  in  horror.  "  So 
be  it! "  I  thought.  "  Last  week  I  ate  my  sup- 
per with  a  highway  robber.  To-day  I'll  go  and 
eat  ices  with  a  servant  of  the  devil.  A  traveller 
should  see  everything."  I  had  yet  another  mo- 
tive for  prosecuting  her  acquaintance.  When 
I  left  college — I  acknowledge  it  with  shame — I 

*  Your  fortune. 


CARMEN  27 

had  wasted  a  certain  amount  of  time  in  study- 
ing occult  science,  and  had  even  attempted,  more 
than  once,  to  exorcise  the  powers  of  darkness. 
Though  I  had  been  cured,  long  since,  of  my 
passions  for  such  investigations,  I  still  felt  a  cer- 
tain attraction  and  curiosity  with  regard  to  all 
superstitions,  and  I  was  delighted  to  have  this 
opportunity  of  discovering  how  far  the  magic 
art  had  developed  among  the  gipsies. 

Talking  as  we  went,  we  had  reached  the 
neveria,  and  seated  ourselves  at  a  little  table, 
lighted  by  a  taper  protected  by  a  glass  globe. 
I  then  had  time  to  take  a  leisurely  view  of  my 
gitana,  while  several  worthy  individuals,  who 
were  eating  their  ices,  stared  open-mouthed  at 
beholding  me  in  such  gay  company. 

I  very  much  doubt  whether  the  Senorita  Car- 
men was  a  pure-blooded  gipsy.  At  all  events, 
she  was  infinitely  prettier  than  any  other  woman 
of  her  race  I  have  ever  seen.  For  a  woman  to 
be  beautiful,  they  say  in  Spain,  she  must  fulfil 
thirty  z'/Y,  or,  if  it  please  you  better,  you  must 
be  able  to  define  her  appearance  by  ten  adjec- 
tives, applicable  to  three  portions  of  her  person. 

For  instance,  three  things  about  her  must  be 
black,  her  eyes,  her  eyelashes,  and  her  eyebrows. 
Three  must  be  dainty,  her  fingers,  her  lips,  her 
hair,  and  so  forth.  For  the  rest  of  this  inven- 


28  CARMEN 

tory,  see  Brantome.  My  gipsy  girl  could  lay 
no  claim  to  so  many  perfections.  Her  skin, 
though  perfectly  smooth,  was  almost  of  a  cop- 
per hue.  Her  eyes  were  set  obliquely  in  her 
head,  but  they  were  magnificent  and  large. 
Her  lips,  a  little  full,  but  beautifully  shaped,  re- 
vealed a  set  of  teeth  as  white  as  newly  skinned 
almonds.  Her  hair — a  trifle  coarse,  perhaps — 
was  black,  with  blue  lights  on  it  like  a  raven's 
wing,  long  and  glossy.  Not  to  weary  my  read- 
ers with  too  prolix  a  description,  I  will  merely 
add,  that  to  every  blemish  she  united  some  ad- 
vantage, which  was  perhaps  all  the  more  evident 
by  contrast.  There  was  something  strange  and 
wild  about  her  beauty.  Her  face  astonished  you, 
at  first  sight,  but  nobody  could  forget  it.  Her 
eyes,  especially,  had  an  expression  of  mingled 
sensuality  and  fierceness  which  I  had  never  seen 
in  any  other  human  glance.  "  Gipsy's  eye, 
wolf's  eye!"  is  a  Spanish  saying  which  denotes 
close  observation.  If  my  readers  have  no  time 
to  go  to  the  "  Jardin  des  Plantes  "  to  study  the 
wolf's  expression,  they  will  do  well  to  watch  the 
ordinary  cat  when  it  is  lying  in  wait  for  a 
sparrow. 

It  will  be  understood  that  I  should  have 
looked  ridiculous  if  I  had  proposed  to  have  my 
fortune  told  in  a  cafe.  I  therefore  begged  the 


CARMEN  29 

pretty  witch's  leave  to  go  home  with  her.  She 
made  no  difficulties  about  consenting,  but  she 
wanted  to  known  what  o'clock  it  was  again, 
and  requested  me  to  make  my  repeater  strike 
once  more. 

"Is  it  really  gold? "  she  said,  gazing  at  it 
with  rapt  attention. 

When  we  started  off  again,  it  was  quite  dark. 
Most  of  the  shops  were  shut,  and  the  streets  were 
almost  empty.  We  crossed  the  bridge  over  the 
Guadalquivir,  and  at  the  far  end  of  the  suburb 
we  stopped  in  front  of  a  house  of  anything  but 
palatial  appearance.  The  door  was  opened  by 
a  child,  to  whom  the  gipsy  spoke  a  few  words 
in  a  language  unknown  to  me,  which  I  after- 
ward understood  to  be  Romany,  or  cMpe  calli 
— the  gipsy  idiom.  The  child  instantly  disap- 
peared, leaving  us  in  sole  possession  of  a  toler- 
ably spacious  room,  furnished  with  a  small  table, 
two  stools,  and  a  chest.  I  must  not  forget  to 
mention  a  jar  of  water,  a  pile  of  oranges,  and 
a  bunch  of  onions. 

As  soon  as  we  were  left  alone,  the  gipsy 
produced,  out  of  her  chest,  a  pack  of  cards, 
bearing  signs  of  constant  usage,  a  magnet,  a 
dried  chameleon,  and  a  few  other  indispensable 
adjuncts  of  her  art.  Then  she  bade  me  cross 
my  left  hand  with  a  silver  coin,  and  the  magic 


30  CARMEN 

ceremonies  duly  began.  It  is  unnecessary  to 
chronicle  her  predictions,  and  as  for  the  style  of 
her  performance,  it  proved  her  to  be  no  mean 
sorceress. 

Unluckily  we  were  soon  disturbed.  The  door 
was  suddenly  burst  open,  and  a  man,  shrouded 
to  the  eyes  in  a  brown  cloak,  entered  the  room, 
apostrophising  the  gipsy  in  anything  but  gentle 
terms.  What  he  said  I  could  not  catch,  but  the 
tone  of  his  voice  revealed  the  fact  that  he  was  in 
a  very  evil  temper.  The  gipsy  betrayed  neither 
surprise  nor  anger  at  his  advent,  but  she  ran  to 
meet  him,  and  with  a  most  striking  volubility, 
she  poured  out  several  sentences  in  the  mysteri- 
ous language  she  had  already  used  in  my  pres- 
ence. The  word  payllo,  frequently  reiterated, 
was  the  only  one  I  understood.  I  knew  that  the 
gipsies  use  it  to  describe  all  men  not  of  their 
own  race.  Concluding  myself  to  be  the  subject 
of  this  discourse,  I  was  prepared  for  a  somewhat 
delicate  explanation.  I  had  already  laid  my 
hand  on  the  leg  of  one  of  the  stools,  and  was 
studying  within  myself  to  discover  the  exact 
moment  at  which  I  had  better  throw  it  at  his 
head,  when,  roughly  pushing  the  gipsy  to  one 
side,  the  man  advanced  toward  me.  Then  with 
a  step  backward  he  cried: 

"What,  sir!  is  it  you?" 


CARMEN  31 

I  looked  at  him  in  my  turn  and  recognised 
my  friend  Don  Jose.  At  that  moment  I  did 
feel  rather  sorry  I  had  saved  him  from  the 
gallows. 

'  What,  is  it  you,  my  good  fellow? "  I  ex- 
claimed, with  as  easy  a  smile  as  I  could  muster. 
'  You  have  interrupted  this  young  lady  just 
when  she  was  foretelling  me  most  interesting 
things!" 

'  The  same  as  ever.  There  shall  be  an  end 
to  it ! "  he  hissed  between  his  teeth,  with  a  sav- 
age glance  at  her. 

Meanwhile  the  gitana  was  still  talking  to 
him  in  her  own  tongue.  She  became  more  and 
more  excited.  Her  eyes  grew  fierce  and  blood- 
shot, her  features  contracted,  she  stamped  her 
foot.  She  seemed  to  me  to  be  earnestly  press- 
ing him  to  do  something  he  was  unwilling  to 
do.  What  this  was  I  fancied  I  understood  only 
too  well,  by  the  fashion  in  which  she  kept  draw- 
ing her  little  hand  backward  and  forward  under 
her  chin.  I  was  inclined  to  think  she  wanted  to 
have  somebody's  throat  cut,  and  I  had  a  fair 
suspicion  the  throat  in  question  was  my  own. 
To  all  her  torrent  of  eloquence  Don  Jose's  only 
reply  was  two  or  three  shortly  spoken  words. 
At  this  the  gipsy  cast  a  glance  of  the  most  ut- 
ter scorn  at  him,  then,  seating  herself  Turkish- 


32  CARMEN 

fashion  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  she  picked  out 
an  orange,  tore  off  the  skin,  and  began  to  eat  it. 

Don  Jose  took  hold  of  my  arm,  opened  the 
door,  and  led  me  into  the  street.  We  walked 
some  two  hundred  paces  in  the  deepest  silence. 
Then  he  stretched  out  his  hand. 

"  Go  straight  on,"  he  said,  "  and  you'll  come 
to  the  bridge." 

That  instant  he  turned  his  back  on  me  and 
departed  at  a  great  pace.  I  took  my  way  back 
to  my  inn,  rather  crestfallen,  and  considerably 
out  of  temper.  The  worst  of  all  was  that,  when 
I  undressed,  I  discovered  my  watch  was  missing. 

Various  considerations  prevented  me  from 
going  to  claim  it  next  day,  or  requesting  the 
Corregidor  to  be  good  enough  to  have  a  search 
made  for  it.  I  finished  my  work  on  the  Domin- 
ican manuscript,  and  went  on  to  Seville.  After 
several  months  spent  wandering  hither  and 
thither  in  Andalusia,  I  wanted  to  get  back  to 
Madrid,  and  with  that  object  I  had  to  pass 
through  Cordova.  I  had  no  intention  of  mak- 
ing any  stay  there,  for  I  had  taken  a  dislike  to 
that  fair  city,  and  to  the  ladies  who  bathed  in 
the  Guadalquivir.  Nevertheless,  I  had  some 
visits  to  pay,  and  certain  errands  to  do,  which 
must  detain  me  several  days  in  the  old  capital 
of  the  Mussulman  princes. 


CARMEN  33 

The  moment  I  made  my  appearance  in  the 
Dominican  convent,  one  of  the  monks,  who  had 
always  shown  the  most  lively  interest  in  my  in- 
quiries as  to  the  site  of  the  battlefield  of  Munda, 
welcomed  me  with  open  arms,  exclaiming: 

"Praised  be  God!  You  are  welcome!  my 
dear  friend!  We  all  thought  you  were  dead, 
and  I  myself  have  said  many  a  pater  and  ave 
(not  that  I  regret  them!)  for  your  soul.  Then 
you  weren't  murdered,  after  all?  That  you 
were  robbed,  we  know !  " 

'  What  do  you  mean? "  I  asked,  rather 
astonished. 

"  Oh,  you  know!  That  splendid  repeater 
you  used  to  strike  in  the  library  whenever  we 
said  it  was  time  for  us  to  go  into  church.  Well, 
it  has  been  found,  and  you'll  get  it  back." 

'  Why,"  I  broke  in,  rather  put  out  of  coun- 
tenance, "  I  lost  it " 

'  The  rascal's  under  lock  and  key,  and  as  he 
was  known  to  be  a  man  who  would  shoot  any 
Christian  for  the  sake  of  a  peseta,  we  were  most 
dreadfully  afraid  he  had  killed  you.  I'll  go 
with  you  to  the  Corregidor,  and  he'll  give  you 
back  your  fine  watch.  And  after  that,  you 
won't  dare  to  say  the  law  doesn't  do  its  work 
properly  in  Spain." 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  I,  "  I'd  far  rather  lose 


34  CARMEN 

my  watch  than  have  to  give  evidence  in  court 
to  hang  a  poor  unlucky  devil,  and  especially 
because — because ' ' 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  be  alarmed!  He's  thor- 
oughly done  for;  they  might  hang  him  twice 
over.  But  when  I  say  hang,  I  say  wrong.  Your 
thief  is  an  Hidalgo.  So  he's  to  be  garrotted  the 
day  after  to-morrow,  without  fail.*  So  you  see 
one  theft  more  or  less  won't  affect  his  position. 
Would  to  God  he  had  done  nothing  but  steal! 
But  he  has  committed  several  murders,  one  more 
hideous  than  the  other." 

"What's  his  name?" 

"  In  this  country  he  is  only  known  as  Jose 
Navarro,  but  he  has  another  Basque  name,  which 
neither  you  nor  I  will  ever  be  able  to  pronounce. 
By  the  way,  the  man  is  worth  seeing,  and  you, 
who  like  to  study  the  peculiar  features  of  each 
country,  shouldn't  lose  this  chance  of  noting  how 
a  rascal  bids  farewell  to  this  world  in  Spain. 
He  is  in  jail,  and  Father  Martinez  will  take 
you  to  him." 

So  bent  was  my  Dominican  friend  on  my 
seeing  the  preparations  for  this  "  neat  little 
hanging  job  "  that  I  was  fain  to  agree.  I  went 
to  see  the  prisoner,  having  provided  myself  with 

*  In  1830,  the  noble  class  still  enjoyed  this  privilege.    Nowadays,  un- 
der the  constitutional  regime,  commoners  have  attained  the  same  dignity. 


CARMEN  35 

a  bundle  of  cigars,  which  I  hoped  might  induce 
him  to  forgive  my  intrusion. 

I  was  ushered  into  Don  Jose's  presence  just 
as  he  was  sitting  at  table.  He  greeted  me  with 
a  rather  distant  nod,  and  thanked  me  civilly  for 
the  present  I  had  brought  him.  Having  counted 
the  cigars  in  the  bundle  I  had  placed  in  his  hand, 
he  took  out  a  certain  number  and  returned  me 
the  rest,  remarking  that  he  would  not  need  any 
more  of  them. 

I  inquired  whether  by  laying  out  a  little 
money,  or  by  applying  to  my  friends,  I  might 
not  do  something  to  soften  his  lot.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  to  begin  with,  smiling  sadly.  Soon, 
as  by  an  after-thought,  he  asked  me  to  have  a 
mass  said  for  the  repose  of  his  soul. 

Then  he  added  nervously:  "Would  you — 
would  you  have  another  said  for  a  person  who 
did  you  a  wrong? " 

"  Assuredly  I  will,  my  dear  fellow,"  I  an- 
swered. "  But  no  one  in  this  country  has 
wronged  me  so  far  as  I  know." 

He  took  my  hand  and  squeezed  it,  look- 
ing very  grave.  After  a  moment's  silence,  he 
spoke  again. 

"  Might  I  dare  to  ask  another  service  of 
you?  When  you  go  back  to  your  own  country 
perhaps  you  will  pass  through  Navarre.  At  all 


36  CARMEN 

events  you'll  go  by  Vittoria,  which  isn't  very 
far  off." 

'  Yes,"  said  I,  "  I  shall  certainly  pass 
through  Vittoria.  But  I  may  very  possibly  go 
round  by  Pampeluna,  and  for  your  sake,  I  be- 
lieve I  should  be  very  glad  to  do  it." 

'  Well,  if  you  do  go  to  Pampeluna,  you'll 
see  more  than  one  thing  that  will  interest  you. 
It's  a  fine  town.  I'll  give  you  this  medal,"  he 
showed  me  a  little  silver  medal  that  he  wore 
hung  around  his  neck.  '  You'll  wrap  it  up  in 
paper  " — he  paused  a  moment  to  master  his  emo- 
tion— "  and  you'll  take  it,  or  send  it,  to  an  old 
lady  whose  address  I'll  give  you.  Tell  her  I 
am  dead— but  don't  tell  her  how  I  died." 

I  promised  to  perform  his  commission.  I 
saw  him  the  next  day,  and  spent  part  of  it  in 
his  company.  From  his  lips  I  learned  the  sad 
incidents  that  follow. 


"I  WAS  born,"  he  said,  "  at  Elizondo,  in  the 
valley  of  Baztan.  My  name  is  Don  Jose  Liz- 
zarrabengoa,  and  you  know  enough  of  Spain, 
sir,  to  know  at  once,  by  my  name,  that  I  come 
of  an  old  'Christian  and  Basque  stock.  I  call 


CARMEX  37 

myself  Don,  because  I  have  a  right  to  it,  and  if 
I  were  at  Elizondo  I  could  show  you  my  parch- 
ment genealogy.  My  family  wanted  me  to  go 
into  the  church,  and  made  me  study  for  it,  but 
I  did  not  like  work.  I  was  too  fond  of  playing 
tennis,  and  that  was  my  ruin.  When  we  Navar- 
rese  begin  to  play  tennis,  we  forget  everything 
else.  One  day,  when  I  had  won  the  game,  a 
young  fellow  from  Alava  picked  a  quarrel  with 
me.  We  took  to  our  maquilas*  and  I  won 
again.  But  I  had  to  leave  the  neighbourhood. 
I  fell  in  with  some  dragoons,  and  enlisted  in  the 
Almanza  Cavalry  Regiment.  Mountain  folks 
like  us  soon  learn  to  be  soldiers.  Before  long 
I  was  a  corporal,  and  I  had  been  told  I  should 
soon  be  made  a  sergeant,  when,  to  my  misfort- 
une, I  was  put  on  guard  at  the  Seville  Tobacco 
Factory.  If  you  have  been  to  Seville  you  have 
seen  the  great  building,  just  outside  the  ram- 
parts, close  to  the  Guadalquivir;  I  can  fancy  I 
see  the  entrance,  and  the  guard  room  just  beside 
it,  even  now.  When  Spanish  soldiers  are  on 
duty,  they  either  play  cards  or  go  to  sleep.  I, 
like  an  honest  Navarrese,  always  tried  to  keep 
myself  busy.  I  was  making  a  chain  to  hold  my 
priming-pin,  out  of  a  bit  of  wire:  all  at  once, 
my  comrades  said,  '  There's  the  bell  ringing,  the 

*  Iron-shod  sticks  used  by  the  Basques. 


38  CARMEN 

girls  are  coming  back  to  work.'  You  must 
know,  sir,  that  there  are  quite  four  or  five  hun- 
dred women  employed  in  the  factory.  They  roll 
the  cigars  in  a  great  room  into  which  no  man 
can  go  without  a  permit  from  the  Teintiquatro,* 
because  when  the  weather  is  hot  they  make 
themselves  at  home,  especially  the  young  ones. 
When  the  work-girls  come  back  after  their  din- 
ner, numbers  of  young  men  go  down  to  see  them 
pass  by,  and  talk  all  sorts  of  nonsense  to  them. 
Very  few  of  those  young  ladies  will  refuse  a 
silk  mantilla,  and  men  who  care  for  that  sort 
of  sport  have  nothing  to  do  but  bend  down  and 
pick  their  fish  up.  While  the  others  watched 
the  girls  go  by,  I  stayed  on  my  bench  near  the 
door.  I  was  a  young  fellow  then — my  heart  was 
still  in  my  own  country,  and  I  didn't  believe  in 
any  pretty  girls  who  hadn't  blue  skirts  and  long 
plaits  of  hair  falling  on  their  shoulders.f  And 
besides,  I  was  rather  afraid  of  the  Andalusian 
women.  I  had  not  got  used  to  their  ways  yet; 
they  were  always  jeering  one — never  spoke  a 
single  word  of  sense.  So  I  was  sitting  with  my 
nose  down  upon  my  chain,  when  I  heard  some 
bystanders  say,  '  Here  comes  the  gitanella! ' 

*  Magistrate  in  charge  of  the  municipal  police  arrangements,  and 
local  government  regulations. 

t  The  costume  usually  worn  by  peasant  women  in  Navarre  and  the 
Basque  Provinces. 


CARMEN  39 

Then  I  lifted  up  my  eyes,  and  I  saw  her!  It 
was  on  a  Friday,  and  I  shall  never  forget  it.  I 
saw  that  very  Carmen  you  know,  and  in  whose 
room  I  met  you  a  few  months  ago. 

"  She  was  wearing  a  very  short  red  skirt, 
below  which  her  white  silk  stockings — with  more 
than  one  hole  in  them — and  her  dainty  red  mo- 
rocco shoes,  fastened  with  flame-coloured  rib- 
bons, were  clearly  seen.  She  had  thrown  her 
mantilla  back,  to  show  her  shoulders,  and  a 
great  bunch  of  acacia  that  was  thrust  into  her 
chemise.  She  had  another  acacia  blossom  in  the 
corner  of  her  mouth,  and  she  walked  along, 
swaying  her  hips,  like  a  filly  from  the  Cordova 
stud  farm.  In  my  country  anybody  who  had 
seen  a  woman  dressed  in  that  fashion  would  have 
crossed  himself.  At  Seville  every  man  paid  her 
some  bold  compliment  on  her  appearance.  She 
had  an  answer  for  each  and  all,  with  her  hand 
on  her  hip,  as  bold  as  the  thorough  gipsy  she 
was.  At  first  I  didn't  like  her  looks,  and  I  fell 
to  my  work  again.  But  she,  like  all  women  and 
cats,  who  won't  come  if  you  call  them,  and  do 
come  if  you  don't  call  them,  stopped  short  in 
front  of  me,  and  spoke  to  me. 

'  Compadre,'  said  she,  in  the  Andalusian 
fashion,  '  won't  you  give  me  your  chain  for  the 
keys  of  my  strong  box? ' 


40  CARMEN 

'  It's  for  my  priming-pin,'  said  I. 
'  Your    priming-pin ! '    she    cried,    with    a 
laugh.     '  Oho !  I  suppose  the  gentleman  makes 
lace,  as  he  wants  pins ! ' 

"  Everybody  began  to  laugh,  and  I  felt  my- 
self getting  red  in  the  face,  and  couldn't  hit  on 
anything  in  answer. 

"  '  Come,  my  love! '  she  began  again,  '  make 
me  seven  ells  of  lace  for  my  mantilla,  my  pet 
pin-maker! ' 

"  And  taking  the  acacia  blossom  out  of  her 
mouth  she  flipped  it  at  me  with  her  thumb  so 
that  it  hit  me  just  between  the  eyes.  I  tell  you, 
sir,  I  felt  as  if  a  bullet  had  struck  me.  I  didn't 
know  which  way  to  look.  I  sat  stock-still,  like 
a  wooden  board.  When  she  had  gone  into  the 
factory,  I  saw  the  acacia  blossom,  which  had 
fallen  on  the  ground  between  my  feet.  I  don't 
know  what  made  me  do  it,  but  I  picked  it  up, 
unseen  by  any  of  my  comrades,  and  put  it  care- 
fully inside  my  jacket.  That  was  my  first  folly. 

"  Two  or  three  hours  later  I  was  still  think- 
ing about  her,  when  a  panting,  terrified-looking 
porter  rushed  into  the  guard-room.  He  told  us 
a  woman  had  been  stabbed  in  the  great  cigar- 
room,  and  that  the  guard  must  be  sent  in  at 
once.  The  sergeant  told  me  to  take  two  men, 
and  go  and  see  to  it.  I  took  my  two  men  and 


CARMEN  41 

went  upstairs.  Imagine,  sir,  that  when  I  got 
into  the  room,  I  found,  to  begin  with,  some 
three  hundred  women,  stripped  to  their  shifts, 
or  very  near  it,  all  of  them  screaming  and  yell- 
ing and  gesticulating,  and  making  such  a  row 
that  you  couldn't  have  heard  God's  own  thunder. 
On  one  side  of  the  room  one  of  the  women  was 
lying  on  the  broad  of  her  back,  streaming  with 
blood,  with  an  X  newly  cut  on  her  face  by 
two  strokes  of  a  knife.  Opposite  the  wounded 
woman,  whom  the  best-natured  of  the  band  were 
attending,  I  saw  Carmen,  held  by  five  or  six  of 
her  comrades.  The  wounded  woman  was  cry- 
ing out,  '  A  confessor,  a  confessor!  I'm  killed! ' 
Carmen  said  nothing  at  all.  She  clinched  her 
teeth  and  rolled  her  eyes  like  a  chameleon. 
*  What's  this? '  I  asked.  I  had  hard  work  to 
find  out  what  had  happened,  for  all  the  work- 
girls  talked  at  once.  It  appears  that  the  injured 
girl  had  boasted  she  had  money  enough  in  her 
pocket  to  buy  a  donkey  at  the  Triana  Market. 
'  Why,'  said  Carmen,  who  had  a  tongue  of  her 
own,  '  can't  you  do  with  a  broom? '  Stung  by 
this  taunt,  it  may  be  because  she  felt  herself 
rather  unsound  in  that  particular,  the  other  girl 
replied  that  she  knew  nothing  about  brooms,  see- 
ing she  had  not  the  honour  of  being  either  a 
gipsy  or  one  of  the  devil's  godchildren,  but  that 


42  CARMEN 

the  Senorita  Carmen  would  shortly  make  ac- 
quaintance with  her  donkey,  when  the  Corregi- 
dor  took  her  out  riding  with  two  lackeys  behind 
her  to  keep  the  flies  off.  *  Well,'  retorted  Car- 
men, *  I'll  make  troughs  for  the  flies  to  drink 
out  of  on  your  cheeks,  and  I'll  paint  a  draught- 
board on  them ! '  *  And  thereupon,  slap,  bang ! 
she  began  making  St.  Andrew's  crosses  on  the 
girl's  face  with  a  knife  she  had  been  using  for 
cutting  off  the  ends  of  the  cigars. 

"  The  case  was  quite  clear.  I  took  hold  of 
Carmen's  arm.  '  Sister  mine,'  I  said  civilly, 
*  you  must  come  with  me.'  She  shot  a  glance  of 
recognition  at  me,  but  she  said,  with  a  resigned 
look:  'Let's  be  off.  Where  is  my  mantilla?' 
She  put  it  over  her  head  so  that  only  one  of  her 
great  eyes  was  to  be  seen,  and  followed  my  two 
men,  as  quiet  as  a  lamb.  When  we  got  to  the 
guard-room  the  sergeant  said  it  was  a  serious 
job,  and  he  must  send  her  to  prison.  I  was  told 
off  again  to  take  her  there.  I  put  her  between 
two  dragoons,  as  a  corporal  does  on  such  occa- 
sions. We  started  off  for  the  town.  The  gipsy 
had  begun  by  holding  her  tongue.  But  when 
we  got  to  the  Calle  de  la  Serpiente — you  know 

*  Pintar  un  javeque,  "paint  a  xebec,"  a  particular  type  of  ship. 
Most  Spanish  vessels  of  this  description  have  a  checkered  red  and 
white  stripe  painted  around  them. 


CARMEN  43 

it,  and  that  it  earns  its  name  by  its  many  wind- 
ings— she  began  by  dropping  her  mantilla  on 
to  her  shoulders,  so  as  to  show  me  her  coaxing 
little  face,  and  turning  round  to  me  as  well  as 
she  could,  she  said: 

*  Oficial  mio,  where  are  you  taking  me  to? ' 
'  To  prison,  my  poor  child,'  I  replied,  as 
gently  as  I  could,  just  as  any  kind-hearted  sol- 
dier is  bound  to  speak  to  a  prisoner,  and  espe- 
cially to  a  woman. 

'Alack!  what  will  become  of  me!  Senor 
Oficial,  have  pity  on  me!  You  are  so  young,  so 
good-looking.'  Then,  in  a  lower  tone,  she  said, 
'  Let  me  get  away,  and  I'll  give  you  a  bit  of 
the  bar  lachi,  that  will  make  every  woman  fall 
in  love  with  you ! ' 

'  The  bar  lachi,  sir,  is  the  loadstone,  with 
which  the  gipsies  declare  one  who  knows  how  to 
use  it  can  cast  any  number  of  spells.  If  you 
can  make  a  woman  drink  a  little  scrap  of  it, 
powdered,  in  a  glass  of  white  wine,  she'll  never 
be  able  to  resist  you.  I  answered,  as  gravely 
as  I  could: 

"  '  We  are  not  here  to  talk  nonsense.  You'll 
have  to  go  to  prison.  Those  are  my  orders,  and 
there's  no  help  for  it ! ' 

'  We  men  from  the  Basque  country  have  an 
accent  which  all  Spaniards  easily  recognise;  on 


44.  CARMEN 

the  other  hand,  not  one  of  them  can  ever  learn 
to  say  Bdi,  jaona  !  * 

"So  Carmen  easily  guessed  I  was  from  the 
Provinces.  You  know,  sir,  that  the  gipsies,  who 
belong  to  no  particular  country,  and  are  always 
moving  about,  speak  every  language,  and  most 
of  them  are  quite  at  home  in  Portugal,  in 
France,  in  our  Provinces,  in  Catalonia,  or  any- 
where else.  They  can  even  make  themselves 
understood  by  Moors  and  English  people.  Car- 
men knew  Basque  tolerably  well. 

'  Laguna  ene  bihotsarena,  comrade  of  my 
heart/  said  she  suddenly.  '  Do  you  belong  to 
our  country? ' 

"  Our  language  is  so  beautiful,  sir,  that  when 
we  hear  it  in  a  foreign  country  it  makes  us 
quiver.  I  wish,"  added  the  bandit  in  a  lower 
tone,  "  I  could  have  a  confessor  from  my  own 
country." 

After  a  silence,  he  began  again. 

" '  I  belong  to  Elizondo,'  I  answered  in 
Basque,  very  much  affected  by  the  sound  of  my 
own  language. 

"  '  I  come  from  Etchalar,'  said  she  (that's  a 
district  about  four  hours'  journey  from  my 
home).  'I  was  carried  off  to  Seville  by  the 
gipsies.  I  was  working  in  the  factory  to  earn 

*  Yes,  sir. 


CARMEN  45 

enough  money  to  take  me  back  to  Navarre,  to 
my  poor  old  mother,  who  has  no  support  in  the 
world  but  me,  besides  her  little  barratcea  *  with 
twenty  cider-apple  trees  in  it.  Ah!  if  I  were 
only  back  in  my  own  country,  looking  up  at  the 
white  mountains!  I  have  been  insulted  here, 
because  I  don't  belong  to  this  land  of  rogues 
and  sellers  of  rotten  oranges;  and  those  hussies 
are  all  banded  together  against  me,  because  I 
told  them  that  not  all  their  Seville  Jacques,^ 
and  all  their  knives,  would  frighten  an  honest 
lad  from  our  country,  with  his  blue  cap  and  his 
maquila !  Good  comrade,  won't  you  do  any- 
thing to  help  your  own  countrywoman? ' 

"  She  was  lying  then,  sir,  as  she  has  always 
lied.  I  don't  know  that  that  girl  ever  spoke  a 
word  of  truth  in  her  life,  but  when  she  did 
speak,  I  believed  her — I  couldn't  help  myself. 
She  mangled  her  Basque  words,  and  I  believed 
she  came  from  Navarre.  But  her  eyes  and  her 
mouth  and  her  skin  were  enough  to  prove  she 
was  a  gipsy.  I  was  mad,  I  paid  no  more  atten- 
tion to  anything,  I  thought  to  myself  that  if 
the  Spaniards  had  dared  to  speak  evil  of  my 
country,  I  would  have  slashed  their  faces  just 
as  she  had  slashed  her  comrade's.  In  short,  I 
was  like  a  drunken  man,  I  was  beginning  to 

*  Field,  garden.  t  Bravos,  boasters. 


46  CARMEN 

say  foolish  things,  and  I  was  very  near  doing 
them. 

'  If  I  were  to  give  you  a  push  and  you 
tumbled  down,  good  fellow-countryman,'  she 
began  again  in  Basque,  *  those  two  Castilian 
recruits  wouldn't  be  able  to  keep  me  back.' 

"  Faith,  I  forgot  my  orders,  I  forgot  every- 
thing, and  I  said  to  her,  *  Well,  then,  my  friend, 
girl  of  my  country,  try  it,  and  may  our  Lady 
of  the  Mountain  help  you  through.' 

"  Just  at  that  moment  we  were  passing  one 
of  the  many  narrow  lanes  one  sees  in  Seville. 
All  at  once  Carmen  turned  and  struck  me  in 
the  chest  with  her  fist.  I  tumbled  down  back- 
ward, purposely.  With  a  bound  she  sprang 
over  me,  and  ran  off,  showing  us  a  pair  of  legs! 
People  talk  about  a  pair  of  Basque  legs!  but 
hers  were  far  better — as  fleet  as  they  were  well- 
turned.  As  for  me,  I  picked  myself  up  at  once, 
but  I  stuck  out  my  lance  *  crossways  and  barred 
the  street,  so  that  my  comrades  were  checked 
at  the  very  first  moment  of  pursuit.  Then  I 
started  to  run  myself,  and  they  after  me — but 
how  were  we  to  catch  her?  There  was  no  fear 
of  that,  what  with  our  spurs,  our  swords,  and 
our  lances. 

"  In  less  time  than  I  have  taken  to  tell  you 

*A11  Spanish  cavalry  soldiers  carry  lances. 


CARMEN  47 

the  story,  the  prisoner  had  disappeared.  And 
besides,  every  gossip  in  the  quarter  covered  her 
flight,  poked  scorn  at  us,  and  pointed  us  in  the 
wrong  direction.  After  a  good  deal  of  march- 
ing and  countermarching,  we  had  to  go  back  to 
the  guard-room  without  a  receipt  from  the  gov- 
ernor of  the  jail. 

'  To  avoid  punishment,  my  men  made  known 
that  Carmen  had  spoken  to  me  in  Basque;  and 
to  tell  the  truth,  it  did  not  seem  very  natural 
that  a  blow  from  such  a  little  creature  should 
have  so  easily  overthrown  a  strong  fellow  like 
me.  The  whole  thing  looked  suspicious,  or,  at 
all  events,  not  over-clear.  When  I  came  off 
guard  I  lost  my  corporal's  stripes,  and  was  con- 
demned to  a  month's  imprisonment.  It  was  the 
first  time  I  had  been  punished  since  I  had  been 
in  the  service.  Farewell,  now,  to  the  sergeant's 
stripes,  on  which  I  had  reckoned  so  surely! 

'  The  first  days  in  prison  were  very  dreary. 
When  I  enlisted  I  had  fancied  I  was  sure  to 
become  an  officer,  at  all  events.  Two  of  my 
compatriots,  Longa  and  Mina,  are  captains- 
general,  after  all.  Chapalangarra  was  a  negro, 
like  Mina,  and  also  like  him  a  refugee  from  his 
country.  Chapalangarra  was  a  colonel,  and  I 
have  played  tennis  a  score  of  times  with  his 
brother,  who  was  just  a  needy  fellow  like  my- 


48  CARMEN 

self.  '  Now,'  I  kept  crying  to  myself,  '  all  the 
time  you  served  without  being  punished  has 
been  lost.  Now  you  have  a  bad  mark  against 
your  name,  and  to  get  yourself  back  into  the 
officers'  good  graces  you'll  have  to  work  ten 
times  as  hard  as  when  you  joined  as  a  recruit.' 
And  why  have  I  got  myself  punished?  For  the 
sake  of  a  gipsy  hussy,  who  made  game  of  me, 
and  who  at  this  moment  is  busy  thieving  in  some 
corner  of  the  town.  Yet  I  couldn't  help  think- 
ing about  her.  Will  you  believe  it,  sir,  those 
silk  stockings  of  hers  with  the  holes  in  them,  of 
which  she  had  given  me  such  a  full  view  as  she 
took  to  her  heels,  were  always  before  my  eyes? 
I  used  to  look  through  the  barred  windows  of 
the  jail  into  the  street,  and  among  all  the  women 
who  passed  I  never  could  see  one  to  compare 
with  that  minx  of  a  girl — and  then,  in  spite  of 
myself,  I  used  to  smell  the  acacia  blossom  she 
had  thrown  at  me,  and  which,  dry  as  it  was,  still 
kept  its  sweet  scent.  If  there  are  such  things 
as  witches,  that  girl  certainly  was  one. 

"  One  day  the  jailer  came  in,  and  gave  me 
an  Alcala  roll.* 


*  Alcala  de  los  Panaderos,  a  village  two  leagues  from  Seville,  where 
the  most  delicious  rolls  are  made.  They  are  said  to  owe  their  quality 
to  the  water  of  the  place,  and  great  quantities  of  them  are  brought  to 
Seville  every  day. 


CARMEN  49 

'  Look  here/  said  he,  '  this  is  what  your 
cousin  has  sent  you.' 

"  I  took  the  loaf,  very  much  astonished,  for 
I  had  no  cousin  in  Seville.  It  may  be  a  mistake, 
thought  I,  as  I  looked  at  the  roll,  but  it  was  so 
appetising  and  smelt  so  good,  that  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  eat  it,  without  troubling  my  head 
as  to  whence  it  came,  or  for  whom  it  was  really 
intended. 

'  When  I  tried  to  cut  it,  my  knife  struck  on 
something  hard.  I  looked,  and  found  a  little 
English  file,  which  had  been  slipped  into  the 
dough  before  the  roll  had  been  baked.  The 
roll  also  contained  a  gold  piece  of  two  piastres. 
Then  I  had  no  further  doubt — it  was  a  pres- 
ent from  Carmen.  To  people  of  her  blood,  lib- 
erty is  everything,  and  they  would  set  a  town 
on  fire  to  save  themselves  one  day  in  prison. 
The  girl  was  artful,  indeed,  and  armed  with 
that  roll,  I  might  have  snapped  my  fingers  at 
the  jailers.  In  one  hour,  with  that  little  file,  I 
could  have  sawn  through  the  thickest  bar,  and 
with  the  gold  coin  I  could  have  exchanged  my 
soldier's  cloak  for  civilian  garb  at  the  nearest 
shop.  You  may  fancy  that  a  man  who  had 
often  taken  the  eaglets  out  of  their  nests  in  our 
cliff  would  have  found  no  difficulty  in  getting 
down  to  the  street  out  of  a  window  less  than 


50  CARMEN 

thirty  feet  above  it.  But  I  didn't  choose  to 
escape.  I  still  had  a  soldier's  code  of  honour, 
and  desertion  appeared  to  me  in  the  light  of  a 
heinous  crime.  Yet  this  proof  of  remembrance 
touched  me.  When  a  man  is  in  prison  he  likes 
to  think  he  has  a  friend  outside  who  takes  an 
interest  in  him.  The  gold  coin  did  rather  offend 
me ;  I  should  have  very  much  liked  to  return  it ; 
but  where  was  I  to  find  my  creditor?  That  did 
not  seem  a  very  easy  task. 

"  After  the  ceremony  of  my  degradation 
I  had  fancied  my  sufferings  were  over,  but 
I  had  another  humiliation  before  me.  That 
came  when  I  had  left  prison,  and  was  told 
off  for  duty,  and  put  on  sentry,  as  a  private 
soldier.  You  can  not  conceive  what  a  proud  man 
endures  at  such  a  moment.  I  believe  I  would 
have  just  as  soon  been  shot  dead — then  I 
should  have  marched  alone  at  the  head  of  my 
platoon,  at  all  events;  I  should  have  felt  I 
was  somebody,  with  the  eyes  of  others  fixed 
upon  me. 

"  I  was  posted  as  sentry  at  the  door  of  the 
colonel's  house.  The  colonel  was  a  young  man, 
rich,  good-natured,  fond  of  amusing  himself. 
All  the  young  officers  were  there,  and  many 
civilians  as  well,  besides  ladies — actresses,  as  it 
was  said.  For  my  part,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if 


CARMEN  51 

the  whole  town  had  agreed  to  meet  at  that  door, 
in  order  to  stare  at  me.  Then  up  drove  the 
colonel's  carriage,  with  his  valet  on  the  box. 
And  who  should  I  see  get  out  of  it,  but  the 
gipsy  girl!  She  was  dressed  up,  this  time,  to 
the  eyes,  togged  out  in  golden  ribbons — a  span- 
gled gown,  blue  shoes,  all  spangled  too,  flowers 
and  gold  lace  all  over  her.  In  her  hand  she 
carried  a  tambourine.  With  her  there  were  two 
other  gipsy  women,  one  young  and  one  old. 
They  always  have  one  old  woman  who  goes 
with  them,  and  then  an  old  man  with  a  guitar, 
a  gipsy  too,  to  play  alone,  and  also  for  their 
dances.  You  must  know  these  gipsy  girls  are 
often  sent  for  to  private  houses,  to  dance  their 
special  dance,  the  Romalis,  and  often,  too,  for 
quite  other  purposes. 

"  Carmen  recognised  me,  and  we  exchanged 
glances.  I  don't  know  why,  but  at  that  moment 
I  should  have  liked  to  have  been  a  hundred  feet 
beneath  the  ground. 

'  'Agur  laguna?  *  said  she.  '  Oficial  mio! 
You  keep  guard  like  a  recruit,'  and  before  I 
could  find  a  word  in  answer,  she  was  inside  the 
house. 

"  The  whole  party  was  assembled  in  the 
patio,  and  in  spite  of  the  crowd  I  could  see  nearly 

*  Good-day,  comrade! 


52  CARMEN 

everything  that  went  on  through  the  lattice.* 
I  could  hear  the  castanets  and  the  tambourine, 
the  laughter  and  applause.  Sometimes  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  her  head  as  she  bounded  upward 
with  her  tambourine.  Then  I  could  hear  the 
officers  saying  many  things  to  her  which  brought 
the  blood  to  my  face.  As  to  her  answers,  I 
knew  nothing  of  them.  It  was  on  that  day,  I 
think,  that  I  began  to  love  her  in  earnest — for 
three  or  four  times  I  was  tempted  to  rush  into 
the  patio,  and  drive  my  sword  into  the  bodies 
of  all  the  coxcombs  who  were  making  love  to 
her.  My  torture  lasted  a  full  hour;  then  the 
gipsies  came  out,  and  the  carriage  took  them 
away.  As  she  passed  me  by,  Carmen  looked  at 
me  with  those  eyes  you  know,  and  said  to  me 
very  low,  '  Comrade,  people  who  are  fond  of 
good  fritata  come  to  eat  it  at  Lillas  Pastia's  at 
Triana!' 

'  Then,  light  as  a  kid,  she  stepped  into  the 
carriage,  the  coachman  whipped  up  his  mules, 
and  the  whole  merry  party  departed,  whither  I 
know  not. 

*  In  most  of  the  houses  in  Seville  there  is  an  inner  court  surrounded 
by  an  arched  portico.  This  is  used  as  a  sitting-room  in  summer.  Over 
the  court  is  stretched  a  piece  of  tent  cloth,  which  is  watered  during  the 
day  and  removed  at  night.  The  street  door  is  almost  always  left 
open,  and  the  passage  leading  to  the  court  (zaguari)  is  closed  by  an 
iron  lattice  of  very  elegant  workmanship. 


CARMEN  53 

1  You  may  fancy  that  the  moment  I  was  off 
guard  I  went  to  Triana;  but  first  of  all  I  got 
myself  shaved  and  brushed  myself  up  as  if  I 
had  been  going  on  parade.  She  was  living  with 
Lillas  Pastia,  an  old  fried-fish  seller,  a  gipsy, 
as  black  as  a  Moor,  to  whose  house  a  great 
many  civilians  resorted  to  eat  fritata,  especially, 
I  think,  because  Carmen  had  taken  up  her  quar- 
ters there. 

'  Lillas,'  she  said,  as  soon  as  she  saw  me, 
'  I'm  not  going  to  work  any  more  to-day.  To- 
morrow will  be  a  day,  too.*  Come,  fellow- 
countryman,  let  us  go  for  a  walk ! ' 

"  She  pulled  her  mantilla  across  her  nose, 
and  there  we  were  in  the  street,  without  my 
knowing  in  the  least  whither  I  was  bound. 

*  Senorita,'  said  I,  '  I  think  I  have  to  thank 
you  for  a  present  I  had  while  I  was  in  prison. 
I've  eaten  the  bread;  the  file  will  do  for  sharp- 
ening my  lance,  and  I  keep  it  in  remem- 
brance of  you.  But  as  for  the  money,  here 
it  is.' 

"'Why,  he's  kept  the  money!'  she  ex- 
claimed, bursting  out  laughing.  '  But,  after 
all,  that's  all  the  better — for  I'm  decidedly  hard 
up!  What  matter!  The  dog  that  runs  never 

*  Mariana  sera  otro  dia. — A  Spanish  proverb. 


54  CARMEN 

starves!*    Come,  let's  spend  it  all!    You  shall 
stand  treat.' 

'  We  had  turned  back  toward  Seville.  At 
the  entrance  of  the  Calle  de  la  Serpiente  she 
bought  a  dozen  oranges,  which  she  made  me  put 
into  my  handkerchief.  A  little  farther  on  she 
bought  a  roll,  a  sausage,  and  a  bottle  of  man- 
zanilla.  Then,  last  of  all,  she  turned  into  a  con- 
fectioner's shop.  There  she  threw  the  gold  coin 
I  had  returned  to  her  on  the  counter,  with  an- 
other she  had  in  her  pocket,  and  some  small 
silver,  and  then  she  asked  me  for  all  the  money 
I  had.  All  I  possessed  was  one  peseta  and  a 
few  cuartos,  which  I  handed  over  to  her,  very 
much  ashamed  of  not  having  more.  I  thought 
she  would  have  carried  away  the  whole  shop. 
She  took  everything  that  was  best  and  dearest, 
yemas,^  turon£  preserved  fruits — as  long  as 
the  money  lasted.  And  all  these,  too,  I  had  to 
carry  in  paper  bags.  Perhaps  you  know  the 
Calle  del  Candilejo,  where  there  is  a  head  of 
Don  Pedro  the  Avenger.  §  That  head  ought  to 

*  Chvquel  sos  pirela,  cocal  terela.  "The  dog  that  runs  finds  a  bone." 
— Gipsy  proverb. 

t  Sugared  yolks  of  eggs. 

J  A  sort  of  nougat. 

§  This  king,  Don  Pedro,  whom  we  call  "the  Cruel,"  and  whom  Queen 
Isabella,  the  Catholic,  never  called  anything  but  "the  Avenger,"  was  fond 
of  walking  about  the  streets  of  Seville  at  night  in  search  of  adventures, 
like  the  Caliph  Haroun  al  Raschid.  One  night,  in  a  lonely  street,  he 


CARMEN  55 

have  given  me  pause.  We  stopped  at  an  old 
house  in  that  street.  She  passed  into  the  entry, 
and  knocked  at  a  door  on  the  ground  floor.  It 
was  opened  by  a  gipsy,  a  thorough-paced  ser- 
vant of  the  devil.  Carmen  said  a  few  words  to 
her  in  Romany.  At  first  the  old  hag  grumbled. 
To  smooth  her  down  Carmen  gave  her  a  couple 
of  oranges  and  a  handful  of  sugar-plums,  and 
let  her  have  a  taste  of  the  wine.  Then  she  hung 

quarrelled  with  a  man  who  was  singing  a  serenade.  There  was  a  fight, 
and  the  king  killed  the  amorous  caballero.  At  the  clashing  of  their  swords, 
an  old  woman  put  her  head  out  of  the  window  and  lighted  up  the  scene 
with  a  tiny  lamp  (candilejo)  which  she  held  in  her  hand.  My  readers  must 
be  informed  that  King  Don  Pedro,  though  nimble  and  muscular,  suffered 
from  one  strange  fault  in  his  physical  conformation.  Whenever  he 
walked  his  knees  cracked  loudly.  By  this  cracking  the  old  woman  easily 
recognised  him. 

The  next  day  the  veintiquatro  in  charge  came  to  make  his  report  to 
the  king.  "  Sire,  a  duel  was  fought  last  night  in  such  a  street — one  of  the 
combatants  is  dead."  " Have  you  found  the  murderer ?"  "Yes,  sire." 
"  Why  has  he  not  been  punished  already  ?  "  "  Sire,  I  await  your  orders ! " 
"Carry  out  the  law."  Now  the  king  had  just  published  a  decree  that 
every  duellist  was  to  have  his  head  cut  off,  and  that  the  head  was  to  be  set 
up  on  the  scene  of  the  fight.  The  veintiquatro  got  out  of  the  difficulty  like 
a  clever  man.  He  had  the  head  sawed  off  a  statue  of  the  king,  and  set 
that  up  in  a  niche  in  the  middle  of  the  street  in  which  the  murder  had 
taken  place.  The  king  and  all  the  Sevillians  thought  this  a  very  good 
joke.  The  street  took  its  name  from  the  lamp  held  by  the  old  woman, 
the  only  witness  of  the  incident.  The  above  is  the  popular  tradition. 
Zuniga  tells  the  story  somewhat  differently.  (See  Anales  de  Sevilla,  vol. 
ii,  p.  136).  However  that  may  be,  a  street  called  Ccdle  del  Candilejo  still 
exists  in  Seville,  and  in  that  street  there  is  a  bust  which  is  said  to  be  a 
portrait  of  Don  Pedro.  This  bust,  unfortunately,  is  a  modern  production. 
During  the  seventeenth  century  the  old  one  had  become  very  much  de- 
faced, and  the  municipality  had  it  replaced  by  that  now  to  be  seen. 


56  CARMEN 

her  cloak  on  her  back,  and  led  her  to  the  door, 
which  she  fastened  with  a  wooden  bar.  As  soon 
as  we  were  alone  she  began  to  laugh  and  caper 
like  a  lunatic,  singing  out,  '  You  are  my  rom, 
I'm  your  romi.'  * 

;'  There  I  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
laden  with  all  her  purchases,  and  not  knowing 
where  I  was  to  put  them  down.  She  tumbled 
them  all  onto  the  floor,  and  threw  her  arms  round 
my  neck,  saying: 

"  '  I  pay  my  debts,  I  pay  my  debts !  That's 
the  law  of  the  Cales.'  t 

"  Ah,  sir,  that  day!  that  day!  When  I  think 
of  it  I  forget  what  to-morrow  must  bring  me ! " 

For  a  moment  the  bandit  held  his  peace, 
then,  when  he  had  relighted  his  cigar,  he  began 
afresh. 

"  We  spent  the  whole  day  together,  eating, 
drinking,  and  so  forth.  When  she  had  stuffed 
herself  with  sugar-plums,  like  any  child  of  six 
years  old,  she  thrust  them  by  handfuls  into  the 
old  woman's  water- jar.  '  That'll  make  sherbet 
for  her,'  she  said.  She  smashed  the  yemas  by 
throwing  them  against  the  walls.  '  They'll  keep 
the  flies  from  bothering  us.'  There  was  no 

*  Rom,  husband.    Romi,  wife. 

t  Colo,  feminine  caUi,  plural  coles.    Literally  "black,"  the  name  the 
gipsies  apply  to  themselves  in  their  own  language. 


CARMEN  57 

prank  or  wild  frolic  she  didn't  indulge  in.  I 
told  her  I  should  have  liked  to  see  her  dance, 
only  there  were  no  castanets  to  be  had.  In- 
stantly she  seized  the  old  woman's  only  earthen- 
ware plate,  smashed  it  up,  and  there  she  was 
dancing  the  Romalis,  and  making  the  bits  of 
broken  crockery  rattle  as  well  as  if  they  had 
been  ebony  and  ivory  castanets.  That  girl  was 
good  company,  I  can  tell  you!  Evening  fell, 
and  I  heard  the  drums  beating  tattoo. 

*  I  must  get  back  to  quarters  for  roll-call/ 
I  said. 

'  To  quarters ! '  she  answered,  with  a  look 
of  scorn.  '  Are  you  a  negro  slave,  to  let  your- 
self be  driven  with  a  ramrod  like  that!  You 
are  as  silly  as  a  canary-bird.  Your  dress  suits 
your  nature.*  Pshaw!  you've  no  more  heart 
than  a  chicken.' 

"  I  stayed  on,  making  up  my  mind  to  the 
inevitable  guard-room.  The  next  morning  the 
first  suggestion  of  parting  came  from  her. 

"  *  Hark  ye,  Joseito,'  she  said.  '  Have  I 
paid  you?  By  our  law,  I  owed  you  nothing, 
because  you're  a  payllo.  But  you're  a  good- 
looking  fellow,  and  I  took  a  fancy  to  you.  Now 
we're  quits.  Good-day ! ' 

"  I  asked  her  when  I  should  see  her  again. 

*  Spanish  dragoons  wear  a  yellow  uniform. 


58  CARMEN 

'  When  you're  less  of  a  simpleton/  she  re- 
torted, with  a  laugh.  Then,  in  a  more  serious 
tone,  '  Do  you  know,  my  son,  I  really  believe 
I  love  you  a  little;  but  that  can't  last!  The  dog 
and  the  wolf  can't  agree  for  long.  Perhaps  if 
you  turned  gipsy,  I  might  care  to  be  your  romi. 
But  that's  all  nonsense,  such  things  aren't  pos- 
sible. Pshaw!  my  boy.  Believe  me,  you're  well 
out  of  it.  You've  come  across  the  devil — he 
isn't  always  black — and  you've  not  had  your 
neck  wrung.  I  wear  a  woollen  suit,  but  I'm  no 
sheep.*  Go  and  burn  a  candle  to  your  majari^ 
she  deserves  it  well.  Come,  good-bye  once  more. 
Don't  think  any  more  about  La  Carmendta,  or 
she'll  end  by  making  you  marry  a  widow  with 
wooden  legs.'  $ 

"  As  she  spoke,  she  drew  back  the  bar  that 
closed  the  door,  and  once  we  were  out  in  the 
street  she  wrapped  her  mantilla  about  her,  and 
turned  on  her  heel. 

"  She  spoke  truth.  I  should  have  done  far 
better  never  to  think  of  her  again.  But  after 
that  day  in  the  Calle  del  Candilejo  I  couldn't 
think  of  anything  else.  All  day  long  I  used  to 
walk  about,  hoping  I  might  meet  her.  I  sought 

*  Me  dicas  vriardd  de  jorpoy,  bus  ne  sino  braco. — A  gipsy  proverb. 

t  The  Saint,  the  Holy  Virgin. 

J  The  gallows,  which  is  the  widow  of  the  last  man  hanged  upon  it. 


CARMEN  59 

news  of  her  from  the  old  hag,  and  from  the 
fried-fish  seller.  They  both  told  me  she  had 
gone  away  to  Laloro,  which  is  their  name  for 
Portugal.  They  probably  said  it  by  Carmen's 
orders,  but  I  soon  found  out  they  were  lying. 
Some  weeks  after  my  day  in  the  Calle  del  Can- 
dilejo  I  was  on  duty  at  one  of  the  town  gates. 
A  little  way  from  the  gate  there  was  a  breach 
in  the  wall.  The  masons  were  working  at  it  in 
the  daytime,  and  at  night  a  sentinel  was  posted 
on  it,  to  prevent  smugglers  from  getting  in. 
All  through  one  day  I  saw  Lillas  Pastia  going 
backward  and  forward  near  the  guard-room, 
and  talking  to  some  of  my  comrades.  They  all 
knew  him  well,  and  his  fried  fish  and  fritters 
even  better.  He  came  up  to  me,  and  asked  if 
I  had  any  news  of  Carmen. 

"  '  No,'  said  I. 

"  '  Well,'  said  he,  '  you'll  soon  hear  of  her, 
old  fellow.' 

"  He  was  not  mistaken.  That  night  I  was 
posted  to  guard  the  breach  in  the  wall.  As 
soon  as  the  sergeant  had  disappeared  I  saw  a 
woman  coming  toward  me.  My  heart  told  me 
it  was  Carmen.  Still  I  shouted: 

'  Keep  off !     Nobody  can  pass  here ! ' 

"  '  Now,  don't  be  spiteful,'  she  said,  making 
herself  known  to  me. 


60  CARMEN 

'What!  you  here,  Carmen?' 

'  Yes,  mi  payllo.  Let  us  say  few  words, 
but  wise  ones.  Would  you  like  to  earn  a  douro? 
Some  people  will  be  coming  with  bundles.  Let 
them  alone.' 

'  No,'  said  I,  '  I  must  not  allow  them 
through.  These  are  my  orders.' 

'  Orders!  orders!  You  didn't  think  about 
orders  in  the  Calle  del  Candilejo! ' 

'  Ah ! '  I  cried,  quite  maddened  by  the  very 
thought  of  that  night.  *  It  was  well  worth  while 
to  forget  my  orders  for  that !  But  I  won't  have 
any  smuggler's  money ! ' 

*  Well,  if  you  won't  have  money,  shall  we 
go  and  dine  together  at  old  Dorotea's? ' 

"  '  No,'  said  I,  half  choked  by  the  effort  it 
cost  me.  '  No,  I  can't.' 

"  '  Very  good !  If  you  make  so  many  diffi- 
culties, I  know  to  whom  I  can  go.  I'll  ask  your 
officer  if  he'll  come  with  me  to  Dorotea's.  He 
looks  good-natured,  and  he'll  post  a  sentry 
who'll  only  see  what  he  had  better  see.  Good- 
bye, canary-bird!  I  shall  have  a  good  laugh  the 
day  the  order  comes  out  to  hang  you ! ' 

"  I  was  weak  enough  to  call  her  back,  and 
I  promised  to  let  the  whole  of  gipsydom  pass 
in,  if  that  were  necessary,  so  that  I  secured  the 
only  reward  I  longed  for.  She  instantly  swore 


CARMEN  61 

she  would  keep  her  word  faithfully  the  very 
next  day,  and  ran  off  to  summon  her  friends, 
who  were  close  by.  There  were  five  of  them,  of 
whom  Pastia  was  one,  all  well  loaded  with  Eng- 
lish goods.  Carmen  kept  watch  for  them.  She 
was  to  warn  them  with  her  castanets  the  instant 
she  caught  sight  of  the  patrol.  But  there  was 
no  necessity  for  that.  The  smugglers  finished 
their  job  in  a  moment. 

'  The  next  day  I  went  to  the  Calle  del  Can- 
dilejo.  Carmen  kept  me  waiting,  and  when  she 
came,  she  was  in  rather  a  bad  temper. 

*  I  don't  like  people  who  have  to  be  pressed/ 
she  said.  '  You  did  me  a  much  greater  service 
the  first  time,  without  knowing  you'd  gain  any- 
thing by  it.  Yesterday  you  bargained  with  me. 
I  don't  know  why  I've  come,  for  I  don't  care 
for  you  any  more.  Here,  be  off  with  you. 
Here's  a  douro  for  your  trouble/ 

"  I  very  nearly  threw  the  coin  at  her  head, 
and  I  had  to  make  a  violent  effort  to  prevent 
myself  from  actually  beating  her.  After  we 
had  wrangled  for  an  hour  I  went  off  in  a  fury. 
For  some  time  I  wandered  about  the  town, 
walking  hither  and  thither  like  a  madman.  At 
last  I  went  into  a  church,  and  getting  into  the 
darkest  corner  I  could  find,  I  cried  hot  tears. 
All  at  once  I  heard  a  voice. 


62  CARMEN 

'  A  dragoon  in  tears.  I'll  make  a  philter 
of  them!' 

"  I  looked  up.  There  was  Carmen  in  front 
of  me. 

"  '  Well,  mi  payllo,  are  you  still  angry  with 
me? '  she  said.  '  I  must  care  for  you  in  spite  of 
myself,  for  since  you  left  me  I  don't  know  what 
has  been  the  matter  with  me.  Look  you,  it  is 
I  who  ask  you  to  come  to  the  Calle  del  Candi- 
lejo,  now ! ' 

"  So  we  made  it  up:  but  Carmen's  temper 
was  like  the  weather  in  our  country.  The  storm 
is  never  so  close,  in  our  mountains,  as  when  the 
sun  is  at  its  brightest.  She  had  promised  to 
meet  me  again  at  Dorotea's,  but  she  didn't  come. 

"  And  Dorotea  began  telling  me  again  that 
she  had  gone  off  to  Portugal  about  some  gipsy 
business. 

"  As  experience  had  already  taught  me  how 
much  of  that  I  was  to  believe,  I  went  about 
looking  for  Carmen  wherever  I  thought  she 
might  be,  and  twenty  times  in  every  day  I 
walked  through  the  Calle  del  Candilejo.  One 
evening  I  was  with  Dorotea,  whom  I  had  almost 
tamed  by  giving  her  a  glass  of  anisette  now  and 
then,  when  Carmen  walked  in,  followed  by  a 
young  man,  a  lieutenant  in  our  regiment. 

" '  Get  away  at  once,'   she   said  to   me   in 


CARMEN  63 

Basque.  I  stood  there,  dumfounded,  my  heart 
full  of  rage. 

" '  What  are  you  doing  here?  *  said  the 
lieutenant  to  me.  '  Take  yourself  off — get  out 
of  this.' 

"  I  couldn't  move  a  step.  I  felt  paralysed, 
The  officer  grew  angry,  and  seeing  I  did  not 
go  out,  and  had  not  even  taken  off  my  forage 
cap,  he  caught  me  by  the  collar  and  shook  me 
roughly.  I  don't  know  what  I  said  to  him.  He 
drew  his  sword,  and  I  unsheathed  mine.  The 
old  woman  caught  hold  of  my  arm,  and  the 
lieutenant  gave  me  a  wound  on  the  forehead,  of 
which  I  still  bear  the  scar.  I  made  a  step  back- 
ward, and  with  one  jerk  of  my  elbow  I  threw 
old  Dorotea  down.  Then,  as  the  lieutenant  still 
pressed  me,  I  turned  the  point  of  my  sword 
against  his  body,  and  he  ran  upon  it.  Then 
Carmen  put  out  the  lamp  and  told  Dorotea,  in 
her  own  language,  to  take  to  flight.  I  fled  into 
the  street  myself,  and  began  running  along,  I 
knew  not  whither.  It  seemed  to  me  that  some 
one  was  following  me.  When  I  came  to  my- 
self I  discovered  that  Carmen  had  never  left  me. 
'  Great  stupid  of  a  canary-bird ! '  she  said, 
*  you  never  make  anything  but  blunders.  And, 
indeed,  you  know  I  told  you  I  should  bring  you 
bad  luck.  But  come,  there's  a  cure  for  every- 


64  CARMEN 

thing  when  you  have  a  Fleming  from  Rome  * 
for  your  love.  Begin  by  rolling  this  handker- 
chief round  your  head,  and  throw  me  over  that 
belt  of  yours.  Wait  for  me  in  this  alley — I'll 
be  back  in  two  minutes.' 

"  She  disappeared,  and  soon  came  back 
bringing  me  a  striped  cloak  which  she  had  gone 
to  fetch,  I  knew  not  whence.  She  made  me  take 
off  my  uniform,  and  put  on  the  cloak  over  my 
shirt.  Thus  dressed,  and  with  the  wound  on 
my  head  bound  round  with  the  handkerchief,  I 
was  tolerably  like  a  Valencian  peasant,  many 
of  whom  come  to  Seville  to  sell  a  drink  they 
make  out  of  '  chufas/  f  Then  she  took  me  to 
a  house  very  much  like  Dorotea's,  at  the  bottom 
of  a  little  lane.  Here  she  and  another  gipsy 
woman  washed  and  dressed  my  wounds,  better 
than  any  army  surgeon  could  have  done,  gave 
me  something,  I  know  not  what,  to  drink,  and 
finally  made  me  lie  down  on  a  mattress,  on 
which  I  went  to  sleep. 

"  Probably  the  women  had  mixed  one  of  the 

*  Flamenco  de  Rama,  a  slang  term  for  the  gipsies.  Roma  does  not 
stand  for  the  Eternal  City,  but  for  the  nation  of  the  romi,  or  the  married 
folk— ^a  name  applied  by  the  gipsies  to  themselves.  The  first  gipsies  seen 
in  Spain  probably  came  from  the  Low  Countries,  hence  their  name  of 
Flemings. 

t  A  bulbous  root,  out  of  which  rather  a  pleasant  beverage  is  manu- 
factured. 


CARMEN  65 

soporific  drugs  of  which  they  know  the  secret 
in  my  drink,  for  I  did  not  wake  up  till  very 
late  the  next  day.  I  was  rather  feverish,  and 
had  a  violent  headache.  It  was  some  time  be- 
fore the  memory  of  the  terrible  scene  in  which 
I  had  taken  part  on  the  previous  night  came 
back  to  me.  After  having  dressed  my  wound, 
Carmen  and  her  friend,  squatting  on  their  heels 
beside  my  mattress,  exchanged  a  few  words  of 
*  chipe  calli?  which  appeared  to  me  to  be  some- 
thing in  the  nature  of  a  medical  consultation. 
Then  they  both  of  them  assured  me  that  I 
should  soon  be  cured,  but  that  I  must  get  out 
of  Seville  at  the  earliest  possible  moment,  for 
that,  if  I  was  caught  there,  I  should  most  un- 
doubtedly be  shot. 

"  *  My  boy,'  said  Carmen  to  me,  '  you'll  have 
to  do  something.  Now  that  the  king  won't 
give  you  either  rice  or  haddock  *  you'll  have  to 
think  of  earning  your  livelihood.  You're  too 
stupid  for  stealing  a  pastesas.^  But  you  are 
brave  and  active.  If  you  have  the  pluck,  take 
yourself  off  to  the  coast  and  turn  smuggler. 
Haven't  I  promised  to  get  you  hanged?  That's 
better  than  being  shot,  and  besides,  if  you  set 
about  it  properly,  you'll  live  like  a  prince  as 

*  The  ordinary  food  of  a  Spanish  soldier. 

t  Ustilar  a  pastesas,  to  steal  cleverly,  to  purloin  without  violence. 


66  CARMEN 

long  as  the  minons  *  and  the  coast-guard  don't 
lay  their  hands  on  your  collar.' 

"  In  this  attractive  guise  did  this  fiend  of  a 
girl  describe  the  new  career  she  was  suggesting 
to  me, — the  only  one,  indeed,  remaining,  now 
I  had  incurred  the  penalty  of  death.  Shall  I 
confess  it,  sir?  She  persuaded  me  without  much 
difficulty.  This  wild  and  dangerous  life,  it 
seemed  to  me,  would  bind  her  and  me  more 
closely  together.  In  future,  I  thought,  I  should 
be  able  to  make  sure  of  her  love. 

"  I  had  often  heard  talk  of  certain  smug- 
glers who  travelled  about  Andalusia,  each  rid- 
ing a  good  horse,  with  his  mistress  behind  him 
and  his  blunderbuss  in  his  fist.  Already  I  saw 
myself  trotting  up  and  down  the  world,  with  a 
pretty  gipsy  behind  me.  When  I  mentioned 
that  notion  to  her,  she  laughed  till  she  had  to 
hold  her  sides,  and  vowed  there  was  nothing  in 
the  world  so  delightful  as  a  night  spent  camp- 
ing in  the  open  air,  when  each  rom  retired  with 
his  romi  beneath  their  little  tent,  made  of  three 
hoops  with  a  blanket  thrown  across  them. 

"  *  If  I  take  to  the  mountains,'  said  I  to  her, 
'  I  shall  be  sure  of  you.  There'll  be  no  lieu- 
tenant there  to  go  shares  with  me.' 

"'Ha!   ha!   you're   jealous!'    she   retorted, 

*  A  sort  of  volunteer  corps. 


CARMEN  67 

'  so  much  the  worse  for  you.  How  can  you  be 
such  a  fool  as  that?  Don't  you  see  I  must  love 
you,  because  I  have  never  asked  you  for  money? ' 

"  When  she  said  that  sort  of  thing  I  could 
have  strangled  her. 

"  To  shorten  the  story,  sir,  Carmen  procured 
me  civilian  clothes,  disguised  in  which  I  got  out 
of  Seville  without  being  recognised.  I  went  to 
Jerez,  with  a  letter  from  Pastia  to  a  dealer  in 
anisette  whose  house  was  the  smugglers'  meet- 
ing-place. I  was  introduced  to  them,  and  their 
leader,  surnamed  El  Dancaire,  enrolled  me  in 
his  gang.  We  started  for  Gaucin,  where  I 
found  Carmen,  who  had  told  me  she  would  meet 
me  there.  In  all  these  expeditions  she  acted 
as  spy  for  our  gang,  and  she  was  the  best 
that  ever  was  seen.  She  had  now  just  returned 
from  Gibraltar,  and  had  already  arranged  with 
the  captain  of  a  ship  for  a  cargo  of  English 
goods  which  we  were  to  receive  on  the  coast. 
We  went  to  meet  it  near  Estepona.  We  hid 
part  in  the  mountains,  and  laden  with  the  rest, 
we  proceeded  to  Honda.  Carmen  had  gone 
there  before  us.  It  was  she  again  who  warned 
us  when  we  had  better  enter  the  town.  This  first 
journey,  and  several  subsequent  ones,  turned 
out  well.  I  found  the  smuggler's  life  pleas- 
anter  than  a  soldier's:  I  could  give  presents  to 


68  CARMEN 

Carmen,  I  had  money,  and  I  had  a  mistress.  I 
felt  little  or  no  remorse,  for,  as  the  gipsies  say, 
*  The  happy  man  never  longs  to  scratch  his 
itch.'  *  We  were  made  welcome  everywhere, 
my  comrades  treated  me  well,  and  even  showed 
me  a  certain  respect.  The  reason  of  this  was 
that  I  had  killed  my  man,  and  that  some  of 
them  had  no  exploit  of  that  description  on  their 
conscience.  But  what  I  valued  most  in  my  new 
life  was  that  I  often  saw  Carmen.  She  showed 
me  more  affection  than  ever;  nevertheless,  she 
would  never  admit,  before  my  comrades,  that 
she  was  my  mistress,  and  she  had  even  made 
me  swear  all  sorts  of  oaths  that  I  would  not  say 
anything  about  her  to  them.  I  was  so  weak  in 
that  creature's  hands,  that  I  obeyed  all  her 
whims.  And  besides,  this  was  the  first  time  she 
had  revealed  herself  as  possessing  any  of  the 
reserve  of  a  well-conducted  woman,  and  I  was 
simple  enough  to  believe  she  had  really  cast  off 
her  former  habits. 

"  Our  gang,  which  consisted  of  eight  or  ten 
men,  was  hardly  ever  together  except  at  decisive 
moments,  and  we  were  usually  scattered  by  twos 
and  threes  about  the  towns  and  villages.  Each 
one  of  us  pretended  to  have  some  trade.  One  was 
a  tinker,  another  was  a  groom;  I  was  supposed 

*  Sarapia  sat  pesquital  ne  punzava. 


CARMEN  69 

to  peddle  haberdashery,  but  I  hardly  ever  showed 
myself  in  large  places,  on  account  of  my  un- 
lucky business  at  Seville.  One  day,  or  rather  one 
night,  we  were  to  meet  below  Veger.  El  Dan- 
ccare  and  I  got  there  before  the  others. 

'  We  shall  soon  have  a  new  comrade/  said 
he.  '  Carmen  has  just  managed  one  of  her  best 
tricks.  She  has  contrived  the  escape  of  her  rom, 
who  was  in  the  presidio  at  Tarifa.' 

"  I  was  already  beginning  to  understand  the 
gipsy  language,  which  nearly  all  my  comrades 
spoke,  and  this  word  rom  startled  me. 

'What!  her  husband?  Is  she  married, 
then? '  said  I  to  the  captain. 

'  Yes ! '  he  replied,  '  married  to  Garcia  el 
Tuerto  * — as  cunning  a  gipsy  as  she  is  herself. 
The  poor  fellow  has  been  at  the  galleys.  Carmen 
has  wheedled  the  surgeon  of  the  presidio  to  such 
good  purpose  that  she  has  managed  to  get  her 
rom  out  of  prison.  Faith!  that  girl's  worth  her 
weight  in  gold.  For  two  years  she  has  been  try- 
ing to  contrive  his  escape,  but  she  could  do  noth- 
ing until  the  authorities  took  it  into  their  heads 
to  change  the  surgeon.  She  soon  managed  to 
come  to  an  understanding  with  this  new  one/ 

'  You  may  imagine  how  pleasant  this  news 
was  for  me.    I  soon  saw  Garcia  el  Tuerto.    He 

*  One-eyed  man. 


70  CARMEN 

was  the  very  ugliest  brute  that  was  ever  nursed 
in  gipsydom.  His  skin  was  black,  his  soul  was 
blacker,  and  he  was  altogether  the  most  thor- 
ough-paced ruffian  I  ever  came  across  in  my  life. 
Carmen  arrived  with  him,  and  when  she  called 
him  her  rom  in  my  presence,  you  should  have 
seen  the  eyes  that  she  made  at  me,  and  the 
faces  she  pulled  whenever  Garcia  turned  his 
head  away. 

"  I  was  disgusted,  and  never  spoke  a  word 
to  her  all  night.  The  next  morning  we  had  made 
up  our  packs,  and  had  already  started,  when  we 
became  aware  that  we  had  a  dozen  horsemen  on 
our  heels.  The  braggart  Andalusians,  who  had 
been  boasting  they  would  murder  every  one  who 
came  near  them,  cut  a  pitiful  figure  at  once. 
There  was  a  general  rout.  El  Dancctire,  Garcia, 
a  good-looking  fellow  from  Ecija,  who  was 
called  El  Remendado,  and  Carmen  herself,  kept 
their  wits  about  them.  The  rest  forsook  the 
mules  and  took  to  the  gorges,  where  the  horses 
could  not  follow  them.  There  was  no  hope  of 
saving  the  mules,  so  we  hastily  unstrapped  the 
best  part  of  our  booty,  and,  taking  it  on  our 
shoulders,  we  tried  to  escape  through  the  rocks 
down  the  steepest  of  the  slopes.  We  threw  our 
packs  down  in  front  of  us  and  followed  them 
as  best  we  could,  slipping  along  on  our  heels. 


CARMEN  71 

Meanwhile  the  enemy  fired  at  us.  It  was  the 
first  time  I  had  ever  heard  bullets  whistling 
around  me,  and  I  didn't  mind  it  very  much. 
When  there's  a  woman  looking  on,  there's  no  par- 
ticular merit  in  snapping  one's  fingers  at  death. 
We  all  escaped  except  the  poor  Remendado^  who 
received  a  bullet  wound  in  the  loins.  I  threw 
away  my  pack  and  tried  to  lift  him  up. 

"  '  Idiot ! '  shouted  Garcia,  '  what  do  we  want 
with  offal!  Finish  him  off,  and  don't  lose  the 
cotton  stockings ! ' 

"  *  Drop  him! '  cried  Carmen. 

"  I  was  so  exhausted  that  I  was  obliged  to  lay 
him  down  for  a  moment  under  a  rock.  Garcia 
came  up,  and  fired  his  blunderbuss  full  into  his 
face.  *  He'd  be  a  clever  fellow  who  recognised 
him  now! '  said  he,  as  he  looked  at  the  face,  cut 
to  pieces  by  a  dozen  slugs. 

"  There,  sir ;  that's  the  delightful  sort  of 
life  I've  led!  That  night  we  found  ourselves  in 
a  thicket,  worn  out  with  fatigue,  with  nothing  to 
eat,  and  ruined  by  the  loss  of  our  mules.  What 
do  you  think  that  devil  Garcia  did?  He  pulled 
a  pack  of  cards  out  of  his  pocket  and  began  play- 
ing games  with  El  Dancaire  by  the  light  of  a 
fire  they  kindled.  Meanwhile  I  was  lying  down, 
staring  at  the  stars,  thinking  of  El  Remendado, 
and  telling  myself  I  would  just  as  lief  be  in  his 


72  CARMEN 

place.  Carmen  was  squatting  down  near  me, 
and  every  now  and  then  she  would  rattle  her 
castanets  and  hum  a  tune.  Then,  drawing  close 
to  me,  as  if  she  would  have  whispered  in  my  ear, 
she  kissed  me  two  or  three  times  over  almost 
against  my  will. 

"  '  You  are  a  devil,'  said  I  to  her. 

"  '  Yes,'  she  replied. 

"  After  a  few  hours'  rest,  she  departed  to 
Gaucin,  and  the  next  morning  a  little  goatherd 
brought  us  some  food.  We  stayed  there  all  that 
day,  and  in  the  evening  we  moved  close  to  Gau- 
cin. We  were  expecting  news  from  Carmen,  but 
none  came.  After  daylight  broke  we  saw  a 
muleteer  attending  a  well-dressed  woman  with 
a  parasol,  and  a  little  girl  who  seemed  to  be  her 
servant.  Said  Garcia,  '  There  go  two  mules  and 
two  women  whom  St.  Nicholas  has  sent  us.  I 
would  rather  have  four  mules,  but  no  matter. 
I'll  do  the  best  I  can  with  these.' 

"  He  took  his  blunderbuss,  and  went  down 
the  pathway,  hiding  himself  among  the  brush- 
wood. 

:'  We  followed  him,  El  Dancdire  and  I  keep- 
ing a  little  way  behind.  As  soon  as  we  were 
within  hail,  we  showed  ourselves,  and  shouted  to 
the  muleteer  to  stop.  When  the  woman  saw 
us,  instead  of  being  frightened — and  our  dress 


CARMEN  73 

would  have  been  enough  to  frighten  any  one — 
she  burst  into  a  fit  of  loud  laughter.  '  Ah !  the 
lillipendi!  they  take  me  for  an  erani!  *  * 

"  It  was  Carmen,  but  so  well  disguised  that 
if  she  had  spoken  any  other  language  I  should 
never  have  recognised  her.  She  sprang  off  her 
mule,  and  talked  some  time  in  an  undertone  with 
El  Dancctire  and  Garcia.  Then  she  said  to  me: 
'  Canary-bird,  we  shall  meet  again  before 
you're  hanged.  I'm  off  to  Gibraltar  on  gipsy 
business — you'll  soon  have  news  of  me.' 

'  We  parted,  after  she  had  told  us  of  a  place 
where  we  should  find  shelter  for  some  days. 
That  girl  was  the  providence  of  our  gang.  We 
soon  received  some  money  sent  by  her,  and  a 
piece  of  news  which  was  still  more  useful  to  us 
— to  the  effect  that  on  a  certain  day  two  English 
lords  would  travel  from  Gibraltar  to  Granada 
by  a  road  she  mentioned.  This  was  a  word  to 
the  wise.  They  had  plenty  of  good  guineas. 
Garcia  would  have  killed  them,  but  El  Dancdire 
and  I  objected.  All  we  took  from  them,  besides 
their  shirts,  which  we  greatly  needed,  was  their 
money  and  their  watches. 

"Sir,  a  man  may  turn  rogue  in  sheer 
thoughtlessness.  You  lose  your  head  over  a 
pretty  girl,  you  fight  another  man  about  her, 

*  "The  idiots,  they  take  me  for  a  smart  lady!" 


74  CARMEN 

there  is  a  catastrophe,  you  have  to  take  to  the 
mountains,  and  you  turn  from  a  smuggler  into 
a  robber  before  you  have  time  to  think  about 
it.  After  this  matter  of  the  English  lords,  we 
concluded  that  the  neighbourhood  of  Gibraltar 
would  not  be  healthy  for  us,  and  we  plunged  into 
the  Sierra  de  Honda.  You  once  mentioned  Jose- 
Maria  to  me.  Well,  it  was  there  I  made  ac- 
quaintance with  him.  He  always  took  his  mis- 
tress with  him  on  his  expeditions.  She  was  a  pret- 
ty girl,  quiet,  modest,  well-mannered,  you  never 
heard  a  vulgar  word  from  her,  and  she  was  quite 
devoted  to  him.  He,  on  his  side,  led  her  a  very 
unhappy  life.  He  was  always  running  after 
other  women,  he  ill-treated  her,  and  then  some- 
times he  would  take  it  into  his  head  to  be  jealous. 
One  day  he  slashed  her  with  a  knife.  Well,  she 
only  doted  on  him  the  more !  That's  the  way  with 
women,  and  especially  with  Andalusians.  This 
girl  was  proud  of  the  scar  on  her  arm,  and 
would  display  it  as  though  it  were  the  most  beau- 
tiful thing  in  the  world.  And  then  Jose-Maria 
was  the  worst  of  comrades  in  the  bargain.  In 
one  expedition  we  made  with  him,  he  managed 
so  that  he  kept  all  the  profits,  and  we  had  all  the 
trouble  and  the  blows.  But  I  must  go  back  to 
my  story.  We  had  no  sign  at  all  from  Carmen. 
El  Danca'ire  said:  '  One  of  us  will  have  to  go  to 


CARMEN  75 

Gibraltar  to  get  news  of  her.  She  must  have 
planned  some  business.  I'd  go  at  once,  only 
I'm  too  well  known  at  Gibraltar.'  El  Tuerto 
said: 

'  I'm  well  known  there  too.  I've  played 
so  many  tricks  on  the  crayfish  * — and  as  I've 
only  one  eye,  it  is  not  overeasy  for  me  to  dis- 
guise myself.' 

'  Then  I  suppose  I  must  go,'  said  I,  de- 
lighted at  the  very  idea  of  seeing  Carmen  again. 
*  Well,  how  am  I  to  set  about  it? ' 
The  others  answered: 

'  You  must  either  go  by  sea,  or  you  must 
get  through  by  San  Rocco,  whichever  you  like 
the  best;  once  you  are  at  Gibraltar,  inquire  in 
the  port  where  a  chocolate-seller  called  La  Rol- 
lona  lives.  When  you've  found  her,  she'll  tell 
you  everything  that's  happening.' 

"  It  was  settled  that  we  were  all  to  start  for 
the  Sierra,  that  I  was  to  leave  my  two  compan- 
ions there,  and  take  my  way  to  Gibraltar,  in  the 
character  of  a  fruit-seller.  At  Ronda  one  of 
our  men  procured  me  a  passport;  at  Gaucin  I 
was  provided  with  a  donkey.  I  loaded  it  with 
oranges  and  melons,  and  started  forth.  When 
I  reached  Gibraltar  I  found  that  many  people 

*  Name  applied  by  the  Spanish  populace  to  the  British  soldiers,  on 
account  of  the  colour  of  their  uniform. 


76  CARMEN 

knew  La  Rollona,  but  that  she  was  either  dead  or 
had  gone  ad  finibus  terrce*  and,  to  my  mind,  her 
disappearance  explained  the  failure  of  our  cor- 
respondence with  Carmen.  I  stabled  my  donkey, 
and  began  to  move  about  the  town,  carrying  my 
oranges  as  though  to  sell  them,  but  in  reality 
looking  to  see  whether  I  could  not  come  across 
any  face  I  knew.  The  place  is  full  of  raga- 
muffins from  every  country  in  the  world,  and  it 
really  is  like  the  Tower  of  Babel,  for  you  can't 
go  ten  paces  along  a  street  without  hearing  as 
many  languages.  I  did  see  some  gipsies,  but  I 
hardly  dared  confide  in  them.  I  was  taking  stock 
of  them,  and  they  were  taking  stock  of  me.  We 
had  mutually  guessed  each  other  to  be  rogues,  but 
the  important  thing  for  us  was  to  know  whether 
we  belonged  to  the  same  gang.  After  having 
spent  two  days  in  fruitless  wanderings,  and  hav- 
ing found  out  nothing  either  as  to  La  Rollona 
or  as  to  Carmen,  I  was  thinking  I  would  go  back 
to  my  comrades  as  soon  as  I  had  made  a  few 
purchases,  when,  toward  sunset,  as  I  was  walking 
along  a  street,  I  heard  a  woman's  voice  from  a 
window  say,  '  Orange-seller ! ' 

"  I  looked  up,  and  on  a  balcony  I  saw  Car- 
men looking  out,  beside  a  scarlet-coated  officer 
with  gold  epaulettes,  curly  hair,  and  all  the  ap- 

*  To  the  galleys,  or  else  to  all  the  devils  in  hell. 


CARMEN  77 

pearance  of  a  rich  milord.  As  for  her,  she  was 
magnificently  dressed,  a  shawl  hung  on  her  shoul- 
ders, she'd  a  gold  comb  in  her  hair,  everything 
she  wore  was  of  silk;  and  the  cunning  little 
wretch,  not  a  bit  altered,  was  laughing  till  she 
held  her  sides. 

'  The  Englishman  shouted  to  me  in  mangled 

Spanish  to  come  upstairs,  as  the  lady  wanted 

some  oranges,  and  Carmen  said  to  me  in  Basque : 

*  Come  up,  and  don't  look  astonished  at 

anything! ' 

"  Indeed,  nothing  that  she  did  ought  ever  to 
have  astonished  me.  I  don't  know  whether  I  was 
most  happy  or  wretched  at  seeing  her  again.  At 
the  door  of  the  house  there  was  a  tall  English 
servant  with  a  powdered  head,  who  ushered  me 
into  a  splendid  drawing-room.  Instantly  Car- 
men said  to  me  in  Basque,  *  You  don't  know  one 
word  of  Spanish,  and  you  don't  know  me.'  Then 
turning  to  the  Englishman,  she  added: 

"  '  I  told  you  so.  I  saw  at  once  he  was  a 
Basque.  Now  you'll  hear  what  a  queer  language 
he  speaks.  Doesn't  he  look  silly?  He's  like  a 
cat  that's  been  caught  in  the  larder ! ' 

'  And  you/  said  I  to  her  in  my  own  lan- 
guage, '  you  look  like  an  impudent  jade — and 
I've  a  good  mind  to  scar  your  face  here  and 
now,  before  your  spark.' 


78  CARMEN 

'  My  spark ! '  said  she.  '  Why,  you've 
guessed  that  all  alone!  Are  you  jealous  of  this 
idiot?  You're  even  sillier  than  you  were  before 
our  evening  in  the  Calle  del  Candilejo!  Don't 
you  see,  fool,  that  at  this  moment  I'm  doing 
gipsy  business,  and  doing  it  in  the  most  brilliant 
manner?  This  house  belongs  to  me — the  guineas 
of  that  crayfish  will  belong  to  me!  I  lead  him 
by  the  nose,  and  I'll  lead  him  to  a  place  that  he'll 
never  get  out  of! ' 

"  '  And  if  I  catch  you  doing  gipsy  business 
in  this  style  again,  I'll  see  to  it  that  you  never 
do  any  again ! '  said  I. 

'  Ah !  upon  my  word !  Are  you  my  romf 
pray,  that  you  give  me  orders?  If  El  Tuerto  is 
pleased,  what  have  you  to  do  with  it?  Oughtn't 
you  to  be  very  happy  that  you  are  the  only  man 
who  can  call  himself  my  minchorro? '  * 

"  '  What  does  he  say? '  inquired  the  Eng- 
lishman. 

" '  He  says  he's  thirsty,  and  would  like  a 
drink,'  answered  Carmen,  and  she  threw  herself 
back  upon  a  sofa,  screaming  with  laughter  at 
her  own  translation. 

"  When  that  girl  began  to  laugh,  sir,  it  was 
hopeless  for  anybody  to  try  and  talk  sense. 
Everybody  laughed  with  her.  The  big  English- 

*My  "lover,"  or  rather  my  "fancy." 


CARMEN  79 

man  began  to  laugh  too,  like  the  idiot  he  was, 
and  ordered  the  servant  to  bring  me  something 
to  drink. 

"  While  I  was  drinking  she  said  to  me: 

"  '  Do  you  see  that  ring  he  has  on  his  finger? 
If  you  like  I'll  give  it  to  you.' 

"And  I  answered: 

'  I  would  give  one  of  my  fingers  to  have 
your  milord  out  on  the  mountains,  and  each  of 
us  with  a  maquila  in  his  fist.' 

"  '  Maquila ,  what  does  that  mean? '  asked  the 
Englishman. 

" '  Maquila'  said  Carmen,  still  laughing, 
*  means  an  orange.  Isn't  it  a  queer  word  for  an 
orange?  He  says  he'd  like  you  to  eat  maquila.3 

"'Does  he?'  said  the  Englishman.  'Very 
well,  bring  more  maquila  to-morrow.' 

"  While  we  were  talking  a  servant  came  in 
and  said  dinner  was  ready.  Then  the  English- 
man stood  up,  gave  me  a  piastre,  and  offered  his 
arm  to  Carmen,  as  if  she  couldn't  have  walked 
alone.  Carmen,  who  was  still  laughing,  said 
to  me: 

'  My  boy,  I  can't  ask  you  to  dinner.  But 
to-morrow,  as  soon  as  you  hear  the  drums  beat 
for  parade,  come  here  with  your  oranges.  You'll 
find  a  better  furnished  room  than  the  one  in  the 
Calle  del  Candilejo,  and  you'll  see  whether  I  am 


80  CARMEN 

still  your  Carmencita.  Then  afterward  we'll 
talk  about  gipsy  business.' 

"  I  gave  her  no  answer — even  when  I  was  in 
the  street  I  could  hear  the  Englishman  shouting, 
'  Bring  more  maquila  to-morrow,'  and  Carmen's 
peals  of  laughter. 

"  I  went  out,  not  knowing  what  I  should  do; 
I  hardly  slept,  and  next  morning  I  was  so  en- 
raged with  the  treacherous  creature  that  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  leave  Gibraltar  without  seeing  her 
again.  But  the  moment  the  drums  began  to  roll, 
my  courage  failed  me.  I  took  up  my  net  full 
of  oranges,  and  hurried  off  to  Carmen's  house. 
Her  window-shutters  had  been  pulled  apart  a 
little,  and  I  saw  her  great  dark  eyes  watching 
for  me.  The  powdered  servant  showed  me  in  at 
once.  Carmen  sent  him  out  with  a  message,  and 
as  soon  as  we  were  alone  she  burst  into  one  of 
her  fits  of  crocodile  laughter  and  threw  her  arms 
around  my  neck.  Never  had  I  seen  her  look  so 
beautiful.  She  was  dressed  out  like  a  queen, 
and  scented;  she  had  silken  furniture,  embroid- 
ered curtains — and  I  togged  out  like  the  thief 
I  was! 

"  '  MinchorroS  said  Carmen,  '  I've  a  good 
mind  to  smash  up  everything  here,  set  fire  to  the 
house,  and  take  myself  off  to  the  mountains.' 
And  then  she  would  fondle  me,  and  then  she 


CARMEN  81 

would  laugh,  and  she  danced  about  and  tore  up 
her  fripperies.  Never  did  monkey  gambol  nor 
make  such  faces,  nor  play  such  wild  tricks,  as 
she  did  that  day.  When  she  had  recovered  her 
gravity- 

'  Hark ! '  she  said,  '  this  is  gipsy  business.  I 
mean  him  to  take  me  to  Ronda,  where  I  have 
a  sister  who  is  a  nun '  (here  she  shrieked  with 
laughter  again) .  '  We  shall  pass  by  a  particular 
spot  which  I  shall  make  known  to  you.  Then 
you  must  fall  upon  him  and  strip  him  to  the  skin. 
Your  best  plan  would  be  to  do  for  him,  but,'  she 
added,  with  a  certain  fiendish  smile  of  hers, 
which  no  one  who  saw  it  ever  had  any  desire  to 
imitate,  '  do  you  know  what  you  had  better  do? 
Let  El  Tuerto  come  up  in  front  of  you.  You 
keep  a  little  behind.  The  crayfish  is  brave,  and 
skilful  too,  and  he  has  good  pistols.  Do  you 
understand? ' 

"  And   she   broke   off  with   another   fit   of 
laughter  that  made  me  shiver. 

'  No,'  said  I,  '  I  hate  Garcia,  but  he's  my 
comrade.  Some  day,  maybe,  I'll  rid  you  of  him, 
but  we'll  settle  our  account  after  the  fashion  of 
my  country.  It's  only  chance  that  has  made  me 
a  gipsy,  and  in  certain  things  I  shall  always  be 
a  thorough  Navarrese,*  as  the  proverb  says.' 

*  Navarro  fina. 


82  CARMEN 

"  '  You're  a  fool,'  she  rejoined,  '  a  simpleton, 
a  regular  payllo.  You're  just  like  the  dwarf 
who  thinks  himself  tall  because  he  can  spit  a  long 
way.*  You  don't  love  me !  Be  off  with  you! ' 

"  Whenever  she  said  to  me  '  Be  oif  with  you,' 
I  couldn't  go  away.  I  promised  I  would  start 
back  to  my  comrades  and  wait  the  arrival  of  the 
Englishman.  She,  on  her  side,  promised  me  she 
would  be  ill  until  she  left  Gibraltar  for  Ronda. 

"  I  remained  at  Gibraltar  two  days  longer. 
She  had  the  boldness  to  disguise  herself  and 
come  and  see  me  at  the  inn.  I  departed,  I  had 
a  plan  of  my  own.  I  went  back  to  our  meeting- 
place  with  the  information  as  to  the  spot  and 
the  hour  at  which  the  Englishman  and  Carmen 
were  to  pass  by.  I  found  El  Dancdire  and 
Garcia  waiting  for  me.  We  spent  the  night 
in  a  wood,  beside  a  fire  made  of  pine-cones  that 
blazed  splendidly.  I  suggested  to  Garcia  that 
we  should  play  cards,  and  he  agreed.  In  the 
second  game  I  told  him  he  was  cheating;  he 
began  to  laugh;  I  threw  the  cards  in  his  face. 
He  tried  to  get  at  his  blunderbuss.  I  set  my 
foot  on  it,  and  said,  '  They  say  you  can  use  a 
knife  as  well  as  the  best  ruffian  in  Malaga;  will 
you  try  it  with  me? '  El  Dancdire  tried  to  part 

*  Or  esorjle  de  or  narsichisle,  sin  chisnar  lachinguel.     "The  prom- 
ise of  a  dwarf  is  that  he  will  spit  a  long  way." — A  gipsy  proverb. 


CARMEN  83 

us.  I  had  given  Garcia  one  or  two  cuffs,  his 
rage  had  given  him  courage,  he  drew  his  knife, 
and  I  drew  mine.  We  both  of  us  told  El  Dan- 
cdire  he  must  leave  us  alone,  and  let  us  fight  it 
out.  He  saw  there  was  no  means  of  stopping 
us,  so  he  stood  on  one  side.  Garcia  was  already 
bent  double,  like  a  cat  ready  to  spring  upon  a 
mouse.  He  held  his  hat  in  his  left  hand  to  parry 
with,  and  his  knife  in  front  of  him — that's  their 
Andalusian  guard.  I  stood  up  in  the  Navarrese 
fashion,  with  my  left  arm  raised,  my  left  leg 
forward,  and  my  knife  held  straight  along  my 
right  thigh.  I  felt  I  was  stronger  than  any 
giant.  He  flew  at  me  like  an  arrow.  I  turned 
round  on  my  left  foot,  so  that  he  found  nothing 
in  front  of  him.  But  I  thrust  him  in  the  throat, 
and  the  knife  went  in  so  far  that  my  hand  was 
under  his  chin.  I  gave  the  blade  such  a  twist 
that  it  broke.  That  was  the  end.  The  blade 
was  carried  out  of  the  wound  by  a  gush  of  blood 
as  thick  as  my  arm,  and  he  fell  full  length  on 
his  face. 

*  What  have  you  done? '  said  El  Dancaire 
to  me. 

"  '  Hark  ye,'  said  I,  '  we  couldn't  live  on  to- 
gether. I  love  Carmen  and  I  mean  to  be  the 
only  one.  And  besides,  Garcia  was  a  villain.  I 
remember  what  he  did  to  that  poor  Remendado, 


84  CARMEN 

There  are  only  two  of  us  left  now,  but  we  are 
both  good  fellows.  Come,  will  you  have  me  for 
your  friend,  for  life  or  death? ' 

"  El  Dancaire  stretched  out  his  hand.  He 
was  a  man  of  fifty. 

"  '  Devil  take  these  love  stories ! '  he  cried. 
'  If  you'd  asked  him  for  Carmen  he'd  have  sold 
her  to  you  for  a  piastre !  There  are  only  two  of 
us  now — how  shall  we  manage  for  to-morrow? ' 

"  '  I'll  manage  it  all  alone,'  I  answered.  '  I 
can  snap  my  fingers  at  the  whole  world  now.' 

"  We  buried  Garcia,  and  we  moved  our  camp 
two  hundred  paces  farther  on.  The  next  morn- 
ing Carmen  and  her  Englishman  came  along 
with  two  muleteers  and  a  servant.  I  said  to  El 
Dancaire: 

" '  I'll  look  after  the  Englishman,  you 
frighten  the  others — they're  not  armed ! ' 

;<  The  Englishman  was  a  plucky  fellow. 
He'd  have  killed  me  if  Carmen  hadn't  jogged 
his  elbow. 

"  To  put  it  shortly,  I  won  Carmen  back  that 
day,  and  my  first  words  were  to  tell  her  she  was 
a  widow. 

'  When  she  knew  how  it  had  all  happened — 

'  You'll  always  be  a  lillipendi'  she  said. 

'  Garcia  ought  to  have  killed  you.    Your  Navar- 

rese  guard  is  a  pack  of  nonsense,  and  he  has 


CARMEN  85 

sent  far  more  skilful  men  that  you  into  the 
darkness.  It  was  just  that  his  time  had  come 
— and  yours  will  come  too/ 

"  '  Ay,  and  yours  too! — if  you're  not  a  faith- 
ful romi  to  me.' 

"  '  So  be  it,'  said  she.  *  I've  read  in  the  coffee 
grounds,  more  than  once,  that  you  and  I  were  to 
end  our  lives  together.  Pshaw!  what  must  be, 
will  be ! '  and  she  rattled  her  castanets,  as  was 
her  way  when  she  wanted  to  drive  away  some 
worrying  thought. 

"  One  runs  on  when  one  is  talking  about  one's 
self.  I  dare  say  all  these  details  bore  you,  but  I 
shall  soon  be  at  the  end  of  my  story.  Our  new 
life  lasted  for  some  considerable  time.  El 
Dancdire  and  I  gathered  a  few  comrades  about 
us,  who  were  more  trustworthy  than  our  earlier 
ones,  and  we  turned  our  attention  to  smuggling. 
Occasionally,  indeed,  I  must  confess  we  stopped 
travellers  on  the  highways,  but  never  unless  we 
were  at  the  last  extremity,  and  could  not  avoid 
doing  so;  and  besides,  we  never  ill-treated  the 
travellers,  and  confined  ourselves  to  taking  their 
money  from  them. 

"  For  some  months  I  was  very  well  satisfied 
with  Carmen.  She  still  served  us  in  our  smug- 
gling operations,  by  giving  us  notice  of  any 
opportunity  of  making  a  good  haul.  She  re- 


86  CARMEN 

mained  either  at  Malaga,  at  Cordova,  or  at 
Granada,  but  at  a  word  from  me  she  would  leave 
everything,  and  come  to  meet  me  at  some  venta 
or  even  in  our  lonely  camp.  Only  once — it  was 
at  Malaga — she  caused  me  some  uneasiness.  I 
heard  she  had  fixed  her  fancy  upon  a  very  rich 
merchant,  with  whom  she  probably  proposed  to 
play  her  Gibraltar  trick  over  again.  In  spite 
of  everything  El  Dancaire  said  to  stop  me,  I 
started  off,  walked  into  Malaga  in  broad  day- 
light, sought  for  Carmen  and  carried  her  off 
instantly.  We  had  a  sharp  altercation. 

"  '  Do  you  know,'  said  she,  '  now  that  you're 
my  rom  for  good  and  all,  I  don't  care  for  you 
so  much  as  when  you  were  my  minchorro!  I 
won't  be  worried,  and  above  all,  I  won't  be  or- 
dered about.  I  choose  to  be  free  to  do  as  I  like. 
Take  care  you  don't  drive  me  too  far;  if  you 
tire  me  out,  I'll  find  some  good  fellow  who'll 
serve  you  just  as  you  served  El  Tuerto.' 

"  El  Dancaire  patched  it  up  between  us;  but 
we  had  said  things  to  each  other  that  rankled  in 
our  hearts,  and  we  were  not  as  we  had  been  be- 
fore. Shortly  after  that  we  had  a  misfortune: 
the  soldiers  caught  us,  El  Dancaire  and  two  of 
my  comrades  were  killed;  two  others  were  taken. 
I  was  sorely  wounded,  and,  but  for  my  good 
horse,  I  should  have  fallen  into  the  soldiers' 


CARMEN  87 

hands.  Half  dead  with  fatigue,  and  with  a  bul- 
let in  my  body,  I  sought  shelter  in  a  wood,  with 
my  only  remaining  comrade.  When  I  got  off 
my  horse  I  fainted  away,  and  I  thought  I  was 
going  to  die  there  in  the  brushwood,  like  a  shot 
hare.  My  comrade  carried  me  to  a  cave  he  knew 
of,  and  then  he  sent  to  fetch  Carmen. 

"  She  was  at  Granada,  and  she  hurried  to  me 
at  once.  For  a  whole  fortnight  she  never  left 
me  for  a  single  instant.  She  never  closed  her 
eyes ;  she  nursed  me  with  a  skill  and  care  such  as 
no  woman  ever  showed  to  the  man  she  loved  most 
tenderly.  As  soon  as  I  could  stand  on  my  feet, 
she  conveyed  me  with  the  utmost  secrecy  to 
Granada.  These  gipsy  women  find  safe  shelter 
everywhere,  and  I  spent  more  than  six  weeks  in 
a  house  only  two  doors  from  that  of  the  Cor- 
regidor  who  was  trying  to  arrest  me.  More  than 
once  I  saw  him  pass  by,  from  behind  the  shutter. 
At  last  I  recovered,  but  I  had  thought  a  great 
deal,  on  my  bed  of  pain,  and  I  had  planned  to 
change  my  way  of  life.  I  suggested  to  Carmen 
that  we  should  leave  Spain,  and  seek  an  honest 
livelihood  in  the  New  World.  She  laughed  in 
my  face. 

'  We  were  not  born  to  plant  cabbages,'  she 
cried.  '  Our  fate  is  to  live  payllos!  Listen :  I've 
arranged  a  business  with  Nathan  Ben-Joseph  at 


88  CARMEN 

Gibraltar.  He  has  cotton  stuffs  that  he  can 
not  get  through  till  you  come  to  fetch  them. 
He  knows  you're  alive,  and  reckons  upon  you, 
What  would  our  Gibraltar  correspondents  say 
if  you  failed  them? ' 

"I  let  myself  be  persuaded,  and  took  up  my 
vile  trade  once  more. 

"  While  I  was  hiding  at  Granada  there  were 
bull-fights  there,  to  which  Carmen  went.  When 
she  came  back  she  talked  a  great  deal  about  a 
skilful  picador  of  the  name  of  Lucas.  She 
knew  the  name  of  his  horse,  and  how  much  his 
embroidered  jacket  had  cost  him.  I  paid  no  at- 
tention to  this ;  but  a  few  days  later,  Juanito,  the 
only  one  of  my  comrades  who  was  left,  told  me 
he  had  seen  Carmen  with  Lucas  in  a  shop  in 
the  Zacatin.  Then  I  began  to  feel  alarmed.  I 
asked  Carmen  how  and  why  she  had  made  the 
picador's  acquaintance. 

'  He's  a  man  out  of  whom  we  may  be  able 
to  get  something,'  said  she.  '  A  noisy  stream  has 
•either  water  in  it  or  pebbles.*  He  has  earned 
twelve  hundred  reals  at  the  bull-fights.  It  must 
be  one  of  two  things:  we  must  either  have  his 
money,  or  else,  as  he  is  a  good  rider  and  a  plucky 
fellow,  we  can  enrol  him  in  our  gang.  We  have 

*  Len  sos  sonsi  abela 
Pani  o  reblevdani  terela. — Gipsy  proverb. 


CARMEN  89 

lost  such  an  one  and  such  an  one;  you'll  have  to 
replace  them.  Take  this  man  with  you ! ' 

"  '  I  want  neither  his  money  nor  himself/  I 
replied,  '  and  I  forbid  you  to  speak  to  him.' 

"  '  Beware ! '  she  retorted.  '  If  any  one  de- 
fies me  to  do  a  thing,  it's  very  quickly  done.' 

"  Luckily  the  picador  departed  to  Malaga, 
and  I  set  about  passing  in  the  Jew's  cotton  stuffs. 
This  expedition  gave  me  a  great  deal  to  do,  and 
Carmen  as  well.  I  forgot  Lucas,  and  perhaps 
she  forgot  him  too — for  the  moment,  at  all 
events.  It  was  just  about  that  time,  sir,  that  I 
met  you,  first  at  Montilla,  and  then  afterward 
at  Cordova.  I  won't  talk  about  that  last  inter- 
view. You  know  more  about  it,  perhaps,  than  I 
do.  Carmen  stole  your  watch  from  you,  she 
wanted  to  have  your  money  besides,  and  espe- 
cially that  ring  I  see  on  your  finger,  and  which 
she  declared  to  be  a  magic  ring,  the  possession 
of  which  was  very  important  to  her.  We  had  a 
violent  quarrel,  and  I  struck  her.  She  turned 
pale  and  began  to  cry.  It  was  the  first  time  I 
had  ever  seen  her  cry,  and  it  affected  me  in  the 
most  painful  manner.  I  begged  her  to  forgive 
me,  but  she  sulked  with  me  for  a  whole  day,  and 
when  I  started  back  to  Montilla  she  wouldn't 
kiss  me.  My  heart  was  still  very  sore,  when, 
three  days  later,  she  joined  me  with  a  smiling 


90  CARMEN 

face  and  as  merry  as  a  lark.  Everything  was 
forgotten,  and  we  were  like  a  pair  of  honey- 
moon lovers.  Just  as  we  were  parting  she  said, 
'  There's  a  fete  at  Cordova ;  I  shall  go  and  see 
it,  and  then  I  shall  know  what  people  will  be 
coming  away  with  money,  and  I  can  warn  you.' 

"I  let  her  go.  When  I  was  alone  I  thought 
about  the  fete,  and  about  the  change  in  Carmen's 
temper.  '  She  must  have  avenged  herself  al- 
ready,' said  I  to  myself,  '  since  she  was  the  first 
to  make  our  quarrel  up.'  A  peasant  told  me 
there  was  to  be  bull-fighting  at  Cordova.  Then 
my  blood  began  to  boil,  and  I  went  off  like  a 
madman  straight  to  the  bull-ring.  I  had  Lucas 
pointed  out  to  me,  and  on  the  bench,  just  beside 
the  barrier,  I  recognised  Carmen.  One  glance 
at  her  was  enough  to  turn  my  suspicion  into  cer- 
tainty. When  the  first  bull  appeared  Lucas 
began,  as  I  had  expected,  to  play  the  agree- 
able; he  snatched  the  cockade  off  the  bull  and 
presented  it  to  Carmen,  who  put  it  in  her  hair 
at  once.* 

"  The  bull  avenged  me.  Lucas  was  knocked 
down,  with  his  horse  on  his  chest,  and  the  bull  on 


*  La  divisa.  A  knot  of  ribbon,  the  colour  of  which  indicates  the  pas- 
turage from  which  each  bull  comes.  This  knot  of  ribbon  is  fastened  into 
the  bull's  hide  with  a  sort  of  hook,  and  it  is  considered  the  very  height 
of  gallantry  to  snatch  it  off  the  living  beast  and  present  it  to  a  woman. 


CARMEN  91 

top  of  both  of  them.  I  looked  for  Carmen,  she 
had  disappeared  from  her  place  already.  I 
couldn't  get  out  of  mine,  and  I  was  obliged  to 
wait  until  the  bull-fight  was  over.  Then  I  went 
off  to  that  house  you  already  know,  and  waited 
there  quietly  all  that  evening  and  part  of  the 
night.  Toward  two  o'clock  in  the  morning 
Carmen  came  back,  and  was  rather  surprised 
to  see  me. 

'  Come  with  me,'  said  I. 
"  '  Very  well,'  said  she,  '  let's  be  off.' 
"  I  went  and  got  my  horse,  and  took  her 
up  behind  me,  and  we  travelled  all  the  rest  of 
the  night  without  saying  a  word  to  each  other. 
When  daylight  came  we  stopped  at  a  lonely  inn, 
not  far  from  a  little  hermitage.     There  I  said 
to  Carmen: 

'  Listen — I  forget  everything,  I  won't  men- 
tion anything  to  you.  But  swear  one  thing  to 
me — that  you'll  come  with  me  to  America,  and 
live  there  quietly ! ' 

*  No,'  said  she,  in  a  sulky  voice,  '  I  won't  go 
to  America — I  am  very  well  here.' 

'  That's  because  you're  near  Lucas.  But  be 
very  sure  that  even  if  he  gets  well  now,  he  won't 
make  old  bones.  And,  indeed,  why  should  I 
quarrel  with  him?  I'm  tired  of  killing  all  your 
lovers ;  I'll  kill  you  this  time.' 


92  CARMEN 

"  She  looked  at  me  steadily  with  her  wild 
eyes,  and  then  she  said: 

" '  I've  always  thought  you  would  kill  me. 
The  very  first  time  I  saw  you  I  had  just  met  a 
priest  at  the  door  of  my  house.  And  to-night, 
as  we  were  going  out  of  Cordova,  didn't  you  see 
anything?  A  hare  ran  across  the  road  between 
your  horse's  feet.  It  is  fate.' 

"  '  Carmencita,'  I  asked,  '  don't  you  love  me 
any  more? ' 

"  She  gave  me  no  answer,  she  was  sitting 
cross-legged  on  a  mat,  making  marks  on  the 
ground  with  her  finger. 

'  Let  us  change  our  life,  Carmen/  said  I 
imploringly.  *  Let  us  go  away  and  live  some- 
where where  we  shall  never  be  parted.  You  know 
we  have  a  hundred  and  twenty  gold  ounces  bur- 
ied under  an  oak  not  far  from  here,  and  then 
we  have  more  money  with  Ben-Joseph  the  Jew/ 

"  She  began  to  smile,  and  then  she  said,  '  Me 
first,  and  then  you.  I  know  it  will  happen 
like  that.' 

"  '  Think  about  it/  said  I.  '  I've  come  to  the 
end  of  my  patience  and  my  courage.  Make  up 
your  mind — or  else  I  must  make  up  mine.' 

"  I  left  her  alone  and  walked  toward  the  her- 
mitage. I  found  the  hermit  praying.  I  waited 
till  his  prayer  was  finished.  I  longed  to  pray 


CARMEN  98 

myself,  but  I  couldn't.    When  he  rose  up  from 
his  knees  I  went  to  him. 

'  Father,'  I  said,  '  will  you  pray  for  some 
one  who  is  in  great  danger? ' 

'  I  pray  for  every  one  who  is  afflicted,'  he 
replied. 

'  Can  you  say  a  mass  for  a  soul  which  is 
perhaps  about  to  go  into  the  presence  of  its 
Maker? ' 

'  Yes,'  he  answered,  looking  hard  at  me. 
"  And  as  there  was  something  strange  about 
me,  he  tried  to  make  me  talk. 

"  '  It  seems  to  me  I  have  seen  you  some- 
where,' said  he. 

"  I  laid  a  piastre  on  his  bench. 

'  When  shall  you  say  the  mass? '  said  I. 

'  In  half  an  hour.  The  son  of  the  inn- 
keeper yonder  is  coming  to  serve  it.  Tell  me, 
young  man,  haven't  you  something  on  your  con- 
science that  is  tormenting  you?  Will  you  listen 
to  a  Christian's  counsel? ' 

"  I  could  hardly  restrain  my  tears.  I  told 
him  I  would  come  back,  and  hurried  away.  I 
went  and  lay  down  on  the  grass  until  I  heard  the 
bell.  Then  I  went  back  to  the  chapel,  but  I 
stayed  outside  it.  When  he  had  said  the  mass, 
I  went  back  to  the  venta.  I  was  hoping  Carmen 
would  have  fled.  She  could  have  taken  my  horse 


94  CARMEN 

and  ridden  away.  But  I  found  her  there  still. 
She  did  not  choose  that  any  one  should  say  I 
had  frightened  her.  While  I  had  been  away  she 
had  unfastened  the  hem  of  her  gown  and  taken 
out  the  lead  that  weighted  it;  and  now  she  was 
sitting  before  a  table,  looking  into  a  bowl  of 
water  into  which  she  had  just  thrown  the  lead 
she  had  melted.  She  was  so  busy  with  her  spells 
that  at  first  she  didn't  notice  my  return.  Some- 
times she  would  take  out  a  bit  of  lead  and 
turn  it  round  every  way  with  a  melancholy 
look.  Sometimes  she  would  sing  one  of  those 
magic  songs,  which  invoke  the  help  of  Maria 
Padella,  Don  Pedro's  mistress,  who  is  said  to 
have  been  the  Bari  Crallisa — the  great  gipsy 
queen.* 

"  '  Carmen,'  I  said  to  her, '  will  you  come  with 
me? '  She  rose,  threw  away  her  wooden  bowl, 
and  put  her  mantilla  over  her  head  ready  to 
start.  My  horse  was  led  up,  she  mounted  be- 
hind me,  and  we  rode  away. 

"  After  we  had  gone  a  little  distance  I  said 
to  her,  '  So,  my  Carmen,  you  are  quite  ready  to 
follow  me,  isn't  that  so? ' 

*  Maria  Padella  was  accused  of  having  bewitched  Don  Pedro. 
According  to  one  popular  tradition  she  presented  Queen  Blanche  of 
Bourbon  with  a  golden  girdle  which,  in  the  eyes  of  the  bewitched 
king,  took  on  the  appearance  of  a  living  snake.  Hence  the  repugnance 
he  always  showed  toward  that  unhappy  princess. 


CARMEN  95 

"  She  answered,  *  Yes,  I'll  follow  you, 
even  to  death — but  I  won't  live  with  you  any 
more.' 

"  We  had  reached  a  lonely  gorge.  I  stopped 
my  horse. 

*  Is  this  the  place? '  she  said. 

"  And  with  a  spring  she  reached  the  ground. 
She  took  off  her  mantilla  and  threw  it  at  her  feet, 
and  stood  motionless,  with  one  hand  on  her  hip, 
looking  at  me  steadily. 

*  You  mean  to  kill  me,  I  see  that  well,'  said 
she.    '  It  is    fate.    But   you'll   never   make   me 
give  in.' 

"  I  said  to  her:  '  Be  rational,  I  implore  you; 
listen  to  me.  All  the  past  is  forgotten.  Yet  you 
know  it  is  you  who  have  been  my  ruin — it  is  be- 
cause of  you  that  I  am  a  robber  and  a  murderer. 
Carmen,  my  Carmen,  let  me  save  you,  and  save 
myself  with  you.' 

"  '  Jose,'  she  answered,  *  what  you  ask  is  im- 
possible. I  don't  love  you  any  more.  You  love 
me  still,  and  that  is  why  you  want  to  kill  me.  If 
I  liked,  I  might  tell  you  some  other  lie,  but  I 
don't  choose  to  give  myself  the  trouble.  Every- 
thing is  over  between  us  two.  You  are  my  rom, 
and  you  have  the  right  to  kill  your  romi,  but 
Carmen  will  always  be  free.  A  calli  she  was 
born,  and  a  calli  she'll  die.' 


96  CARMEN 

'  Then,  you  love  Lucas? '  I  asked. 

"  '  Yes,  I  have  loved  him — as  I  loved  you — 
for  an  instant — less  than  I  loved  you,  perhaps. 
But  now  I  don't  love  anything,  and  I  hate 
myself  for  ever  having  loved  you.' 

"  I  cast  myself  at  her  feet,  I  seized  her  hands, 
I  watered  them  with  my  tears,  I  reminded  her  of 
all  the  happy  moments  we  had  spent  together,  I 
offered  to  continue  my  brigand's  life,  if  that 
would  please  her.  Everything,  sir,  everything — 
I  offered  her  everything  if  she  would  only  love 
me  again. 

"  She  said: 

"'Love  you  again?  That's  not  possible! 
Live  with  you?  I  will  not  do  it! ' 

"  I  was  wild  with  fury.  I  drew  my  knife, 
I  would  have  had  her  look  frightened,  and  sue 
for  mercy — but  that  woman  was  a  demon. 

"  I  cried,  '  For  the  last  time  I  ask  you,  Will 
you  stay  with  me? ' 

"  '  No !  no !  no ! '  she  said,  and  she  stamped 
her  foot. 

"  Then  she  pulled  a  ring  I  had  given  her  off 
her  finger,  and  cast  it  into  the  brushwood. 

"  I  struck  her  twice  over — I  had  taken 
Garcia's  knife,  because  I  had  broken  my  own. 
At  the  second  thrust  she  fell  without  a  sound. 
It  seems  to  me  that  I  can  still  see  her  great  black 


CARMEN  97 

staring  at  me.     Then  they  grew  dim  and 
the  lids  closed. 

"  For  a  good  hour  I  lay  there  prostrate  be- 
side her  corpse.  Then  I  recollected  that  Carmen 
had  often  told  me  that  she  would  like  to  lie 
buried  in  a  wood.  I  dug  a  grave  for  her  with 
my  knife  and  laid  her  in  it.  I  hunted  about  a 
long  time  for  her  ring,  and  I  found  it  at  last. 
I  put  it  into  the  grave  beside  her,  with  a  little 
cross — perhaps  I  did  wrong.  Then  I  got  upon 
my  horse,  galloped  to  Cordova,  and  gave  myself 
up  at  the  nearest  guard-room.  I  told  them  I  had 
killed  Carmen,  but  I  would  not  tell  them  where 
her  body  was.  That  hermit  was  a  holy  man !  He 
prayed  for  her — he  said  a  mass  for  her  soul. 
Poor  child!  it's  the  calle  who  are  to  blame  for 
having  brought  her  up  as  they  did." 


IV 


SPAIN  is  one  of  the  countries  in  which  those 
nomads,  scattered  all  over  Europe,  and  known 
as  Bohemians,  Gitanas,  Gipsies,  Zigeuner,  and 
so  forth,  are  now  to  be  found  in  the  greatest 
numbers.  Most  of  these  people  live,  or  rather 
wander  hither  and  thither,  in  the  southern  and 
eastern  provinces  of  Spain,  in  Andalusia,  and 


98  CARMEN 

Estramadura,  in  the  kingdom  of  Nurcia.  There 
are  a  great  many  of  them  in  Catalonia.  These 
last  frequently  cross  over  into  France  and  are 
to  be  seen  at  all  our  southern  fairs.  The  men 
generally  call  themselves  grooms,  horse  doctors, 
mule-clippers ;  to  these  trades  they  add  the  mend- 
ing of  saucepans  and  brass  utensils,  not  to  men- 
tion smuggling  and  other  illicit  practices.  The 
women  tell  fortunes,  beg,  and  sell  all  sorts  of 
drugs,  some  of  which  are  innocent,  while  some 
are  not.  The  physical  characteristics  of  the  gip- 
sies are  more  easily  distinguished  than  described, 
and  when  you  have  known  one,  you  should  be  able 
to  recognise  a  member  of  the  race  among  a  thou- 
sand other  men.  It  is  by  their  physiognomy  and 
expression,  especially,  that  they  differ  from  the 
other  inhabitants  of  the  same  country.  Their 
complexion  is  exceedingly  swarthy,  always  dark- 
er than  that  of  the  race  among  whom  they  live. 
Hence  the  name  of  cale  (blacks)  which  they  fre- 
quently apply  to  themselves.*  Their  eyes,  set 
with  a  decided  slant,  are  large,  very  black,  and 
shaded  by  long  and  heavy  lashes.  Their  glance 
can  only  be  compared  to  that  of  a  wild  creature. 
It  is  full  at  once  of  boldness  and  shyness,  and  in 

*  It  has  struck  me  that  the  German  gipsies,  though  they  thoroughly 
understand  the  word  cole,  do  not  care  to  be  called  by  that  name.  Among 
themselves  they  always  use  the  designation  Romane  tchave. 


CARMEN  99! 

this  respect  their  eyes  are  a  fair  indication  of 
their  national  character,  which  is  cunning,  bold, 
but  with  "  the  natural  fear  of  blows,"  like  Pan- 
urge.  Most  of  the  men  are  strapping  fellows, 
slight  and  active.  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  a 
gipsy  who  had  grown  fat.  In  Germany  the 
gipsy  women  are  often  very  pretty;  but  beauty 
is  very  uncommon  among  the  Spanish  gitanas. 
When  very  young,  they  may  pass  as  being  attrac- 
tive in  their  ugliness,  but  once  they  have  reached 
motherhood,  they  become  absolutely  repulsive. 
The  filthiness  of  both  sexes  is  incredible,  and  no 
one  who  has  not  seen  a  gipsy  matron's  hair  can 
form  any  conception  of  what  it  is  like,  not  even 
if  he  conjures  up  the  roughest,  the  greasiest,  and 
the  dustiest  heads  imaginable.  In  some  of  the 
large  Andalusian  towns  certain  of  the  gipsy 
girls,  somewhat  better  looking  than  their  fellows, 
will  take  more  care  of  their  personal  appearance. 
These  go  out  and  earn  money  by  performing 
dances  strongly  resembling  those  forbidden  at 
our  public  balls  in  carnival  time.  An  English 
missionary,  Mr.  Borrow,  the  author  of  two  very 
interesting  works  on  the  Spanish  gipsies,  whom 
he  undertook  to  convert  on  behalf  of  the  Bible 
Society,  declares  there  is  no  instance  of  any 
gitana  showing  the  smallest  weakness  for  a  man 
not  belonging  to  her  own  race.  The  praise  he 


100  CARMEN 

bestows  upon  their  chastity  strikes  me  as  being 
exceedingly  exaggerated.  In  the  first  place,  the 
great  majority  are  in  the  position  of  the  ugly 
woman  described  by  Ovid,  "  Casta  quam  nemo 
rogavit"  As  for  the  pretty  ones,  they  are,  like 
all  Spanish  women,  very  fastidious  in  choosing 
their  lovers.  Their  fancy  must  be  taken,  and 
their  favour  must  be  earned.  Mr.  Borrow 
quotes,  in  proof  of  their  virtue,  one  trait  which 
does  honour  to  his  own,  and  especially  to  his 
simplicity:  he  declares  that  an  immoral  man  of 
his  acquaintance  offered  several  gold  ounces  to 
a  pretty  gitana,  and  offered  them  in  vain.  An 
Andalusian,  to  whom  I  retailed  this  anecdote, 
asserted  that  the  immoral  man  in  question  would 
have  been  far  more  successful  if  he  had  shown 
the  girl  two  or  three  piastres,  and  that  to  offer 
gold  ounces  to  a  gipsy  was  as  poor  a  method  of 
persuasion  as  to  promise  a  couple  of  millions  to 
a  tavern  wench.  However  that  may  be,  it  is  cer- 
tain that  the  gitana  shows  the  most  extraordinary 
devotion  to  her  husband.  There  is  no  danger  and 
no  suffering  she  will  not  brave,  to  help  him  in 
his  need.  One  of  the  names  which  the  gipsies 
apply  to  themselves,  Rome,  or  "  the  married 
couple,"  seems  to  me  a  proof  of  their  racial  re- 
spect for  the  married  state.  Speaking  generally, 
it  may  be  asserted  that  their  chief  virtue  is  their 


CARMEN  101 

patriotism — if  we  may  thus  describe  the  fidelity 
they  observe  in  all  their  relations  with  persons 
of  the  same  origin  as  their  own,  their  readiness 
to  help  one  another,  and  the  inviolable  secrecy 
which  they  keep  for  each  other's  benefit,  in  all 
compromising  matters.  And,  indeed,  something 
of  the  same  sort  may  be  noticed  in  all  myste- 
rious associations  which  are  beyond  the  pale  of 
the  law. 

Some  months  ago,  I  paid  a  visit  to  a  gipsy 
tribe  in  the  Vosges  country.  In  the  hut  of  an 
old  woman,  the  oldest  member  of  the  tribe,  I 
found  a  gipsy,  in  no  way  related  to  the  family, 
who  was  sick  of  a  mortal  disease.  The  man  had 
left  a  hospital,  where  he  was  well  cared  for,  so 
that  he  might  die  among  his  own  people.  For 
thirteen  weeks  he  had  been  lying  in  bed  in  their 
encampment,  and  receiving  far  better  treatment 
than  any  of  the  sons  and  sons-in-law  who  shared 
his  shelter.  He  had  a  good  bed  made  of  straw 
and  moss,  and  sheets  that  were  tolerably  white, 
whereas  all  the  rest  of  the  family,  which  num- 
bered eleven  persons,  slept  on  planks  three  feet 
long.  So  much  for  their  hospitality.  This  very 
same  woman,  humane  as  was  her  treatment  of 
her  guest,  said  to  me  constantly  before  the  sick 
man :  "  Singo,  singo,  homte  hi  mulo"  "  Soon, 
soon  he  must  die! "  After  all,  these  people  live 


102  CARMEN 

such  miserable  lives,  that  a  reference  to  the  ap- 
proach of  death  can  have  no  terrors  for  them. 

One  remarkable  feature  in  the  gipsy  charac- 
ter is  their  indiff erence  about  religion.  Not  that 
they  are  strong-minded,  or  sceptical.  They  have 
never  made  any  profession  of  atheism.  Far 
from  that,  indeed,  the  religion  of  the  country 
which  they  inhabit  is  always  theirs;  but  they 
change  their  religion  when  they  change  the  coun- 
try of  their  residence.  They  are  equally  free 
from  the  superstitions  which  replace  religious 
feeling  in  the  minds  of  the  vulgar.  How,  indeed, 
can  superstition  exist  among  a  race  which,  as  a 
rule,  makes  its  livelihood  out  of  the  credulity  of 
others?  Nevertheless,  I  have  remarked  a  par- 
ticular horror  of  touching  a  corpse  among  the 
Spanish  gipsies.  Very  few  of  these  could  be 
induced  to  carry  a  dead  man  to  his  grave,  even 
if  they  were  paid  for  it. 

I  have  said  that  most  gipsy  women  under- 
take to  tell  fortunes.  They  do  this  very  suc- 
cessfully. But  they  find  a  much  greater  source 
of  profit  in  the  sale  of  charms  and  love-philters. 
Not  only  do  they  supply  toads'  claws  to  hold 
fickle  hearts,  and  powdered  loadstone  to  kindle 
love  in  cold  ones,  but  if  necessity  arises,  they  can 
use  mighty  incantations,  which  force  the  devil  to 
lend  them  his  aid.  Last  year  the  following  story 


CARMEN  103 

was  related  to  me  by  a  Spanish  lady.  She  was 
walking  one  day  along  the  Calle  d'Alcala,  feel- 
ing very  sad  and  anxious.  A  gipsy  woman  who 
was  squatting  on  the  pavement  called  out  to  her, 
"  My  pretty  lady,  your  lover  has  played  you 
false!  "  (It  was  quite  true.)  "  Shall  I  get  him 
back  for  you? "  My  readers  will  imagine  with 
what  joy  the  proposal  was  accepted,  and  how 
complete  was  the  confidence  inspired  by  a  per- 
son who  could  thus  guess  the  inmost  secrets  of 
the  heart.  As  it  would  have  been  impossible  to 
proceed  to  perform  the  operations  of  magic  in 
the  most  crowded  street  in  Madrid,  a  meeting 
was  arranged  for  the  next  day.  "  Nothing  will 
be  easier  than  to  bring  back  the  faithless  one  to 
your  feet!  "  said  the  gitana.  "  Do  you  happen 
to  have  a  handkerchief,  a  scarf,  or  a  mantilla, 
that  he  gave  you?  "  A  silken  scarf  was  handed 
her.  "  Now  sew  a  piastre  ijito  one  corner  of  the 
scarf  with  crimson  silk — sew  half  a  piastre  into 
another  corner — sew  a  peseta  here — and  a  two- 
real  piece  there ;  then,  in  the  middle  you  must  sew 
a  gold  coin — a  doubloon  would  be  best."  The 
doubloon  and  all  the  other  coins  were  duly  sewn 
in.  "  Now  give  me  the  scarf,  and  I'll  take  it  to 
the  Campo  Santo  when  midnight  strikes.  You 
come  along  with  me,  if  you  want  to  see  a  fine 
piece  of  witchcraft.  I  promise  you  shall  see  the 


104.  CARMEN 

man  you  love  to-morrow !  "  The  gipsy  departed 
alone  for  the  Campo  Santo,  since  my  Spanish 
friend  was  too  much  afraid  of  witchcraft  to  go 
there  with  her.  I  leave  my  readers  to  guess 
whether  my  poor  forsaken  lady  ever  saw  her 
lover,  or  her  scarf,  again. 

In  spite  of  their  poverty  and  the  sort  of 
aversion  they  inspire,  the  gipsies  are  treated  with 
a  certain  amount  of  consideration  by  the  more  ig- 
norant folk,  and  they  are  very  proud  of  it.  They 
feel  themselves  to  be  a  superior  race  as  regards 
intelligence,  and  they  heartily  despise  the  people 
whose  hospitality  they  enjoy.  :'  These  Gentiles 
are  so  stupid,"  said  one  of  the  Vosges  gipsies  to 
me,  "  that  there  is  no  credit  in  taking  them  in. 
The  other  day  a  peasant  woman  called  out  to  me 
in  the  street.  I  went  into  her  house.  Her  stove 
smoked  and  she  asked  me  to  give  her  a  charm 
to  cure  it.  First  of  ail  I  made  her  give  me  a  good 
bit  of  bacon,  and  then  I  began  to  mumble  a  few 
words  in  Romany.  '  You're  a  fool,'  I  said,  c  you 
were  born  a  fool,  and  you'll  die  a  fool ! '  When 
I  had  got  near  the  door  I  said  to  her,  in  good 
German,  '  The  most  certain  way  of  keeping 
your  stove  from  smoking  is  not  to  light  any  fire 
in  it! '  and  then  I  took  to  my  heels." 

The  history  of  the  gipsies  is  still  a  problem. 
We  know,  indeed,  that  their  first  bands,  which 


CARMEN  105 

were  few  and  far  between,  appeared  in  Eastern 
Europe  toward  the  beginning  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  But  nobody  can  tell  whence  they 
started,  or  why  they  came  to  Europe,  and,  what 
is  still  more  extraordinary,  no  one  knows  how 
they  multiplied,  within  a  short  time,  and  in  so 
prodigious  a  fashion,  and  in  several  countries, 
all  very  remote  from  each  other.  The  gipsies 
themselves  have  preserved  no  tradition  whatso- 
ever as  to  their  origin,  and  though  most  of  them 
do  speak  of  Egypt  as  their  original  fatherland, 
that  is  only  because  they  have  adopted  a  very 
ancient  fable  respecting  their  race. 

Most  of  the  Orientalists  who  have  studied  the 
gipsy  language  believe  that  the  cradle  of  the 
race  was  in  India.  It  appears,  in  fact,  that  many 
of  the  roots  and  grammatical  forms  of  the  Ro- 
many tongue  are  to  be  found  in  idioms  derived 
from  the  Sanskrit.  As  may  be  imagined,  the 
gipsies,  during  their  long  wanderings,  have 
adopted  many  foreign  words.  In  every  Romany 
dialect  a  number  of  Greek  words  appear,  as,  for 
instance  cocal  (bone),  from  KdKKaXov;  petaie 
(horse-shoe),  from  ircraXov;  cafi  (nail),  from 
Kap<|>t,  etc. 

At  the  present  day  the  gipsies  have  almost  as 
many  dialects  as  there  are  separate  hordes  of 
their  race.  Everywhere,  they  speak  the  Ian- 


106  CARMEN 

guage  of  the  country  they  inhabit  more  easily 
than  their  own  idiom,  which  they  seldom  use, 
except  with  the  object  of  conversing  freely  be- 
fore strangers.  A  comparison  of  the  dialect  of 
the  German  gipsies  with  that  used  by  the  Span- 
ish gipsies,  who  have  held  no  communication  with 
each  other  for  several  centuries,  reveals  the  ex- 
istence of  a  great  number  of  words  common  to 
both.  But  everywhere  the  original  language  is 
notably  affected,  though  in  different  degrees,  by 
its  contact  with  the  more  cultivated  languages 
into  the  use  of  which  the  nomads  have  been 
forced.  German  in  one  case  and  Spanish  in  the 
other  have  so  modified  the  Romany  groundwork 
that  it  would  not  be  possible  for  a  gipsy  from 
the  Black  Forest  to  converse  with  one  of  his  An- 
dalusian  brothers,  although  a  few  sentences  on 
each  side  would  suffice  to  convince  them  that  each 
was  speaking  a  dialect  of  the  same  language. 
Certain  words  in  very  frequent  use  are,  I  be- 
lieve, common  to  every  dialect.  Thus,  in  every 
vocabulary  which  I  have  been  able  to  consult, 
pani  means  water,  manro  means  bread,  mas 
stands  for  meat,  and  Ion  for  salt. 

The  nouns  of  number  are  almost  the  same 
in  every  case.  The  German  dialect  seems  to  me 
much  purer  than  the  Spanish,  for  it  has  pre- 
served numbers  of  the  primitive  grammatical 


CARMEN  107 

forms,  whereas  the  gitanas  have  adopted  those 
of  the  Castilian  tongue.  Nevertheless,  some 
words  are  an  exception,  as  though  to  prove  that 
the  language  was  originally  common  to  all.  The 
preterite  of  the  German  dialect  is  formed  by 
adding  ium  to  the  imperative,  which  is  always 
the  root  of  the  verb.  In  the  Spanish  Romany 
the  verbs  are  all  conjugated  on  the  model  of  the 
first  conjugation  of  the  Castilian  verbs.  From 
jamar,  the  infinitive  of  "  to  eat,"  the  regular 
conjugation  should  be  jame,  "  I  have  eaten." 
From  lillar,  "  to  take,"  lille,  "  I  have  taken." 
Yet,  some  old  gipsies  say,  as  an  exception, 
jayon  and  lillon.  I  am  not  acquainted  with 
any  other  verbs  which  have  preserved  this  an- 
cient form. 

While  I  am  thus  showing  off  my  small  ac- 
quaintance with  the  Romany  language,  I  must 
notice  a  few  words  of  French  slang  which  our 
thieves  have  borrowed  from  the  gipsies.  From 
Les  Mystdres  de  Palis  honest  folk  have  learned 
that  the  word  chourin  means  "  a  knife."  This  is 
pure  Romany — tchouri  is  one  of  the  words  which 
is  common  to  every  dialect.  Monsieur  Vidocq 
calls  a  horse  gres — this  again  is  a  gipsy  word — 
gras,  gre,  graste,  and  gris.  Add  to  this  the  word 
romamchel,  by  which  the  gipsies  are  described 
in  Parisian  slang.  This  is  a  corruption  of  ro- 


108  CARMEN 

mane  tchave — "  gipsy  lads."  But  a  piece  of 
etymology  of  which  I  am  really  proud  is  that 
of  the  word  frimousse^  "  face,"  "  countenance," 
— a  word  which  every  schoolboy  uses,  or  did  use, 
in  my  time.  Note,  in  the  first  place,  that  Oudin, 
in  his  curious  dictionary,  published  in  1640,  wrote 
the  word  firlimouse.  Now  in  Romany,  firla,  or 
fila,  stands  for  "  face,"  and  has  the  same  mean- 
ing— it  is  exactly  the  os  of  the  Latins.  The 
combination  of  firlamui  was  instantly  under- 
stood by  a  genuine  gipsy,  and  I  believe  it  to  be 
true  to  the  spirit  of  the  gipsy  language. 

I  have  surely  said  enough  to  give  the  readers 
of  Carmen  a  favourable  idea  of  my  Romany 
studies.  I  will  conclude  with  the  following 
proverb,  which  comes  in  very  appropriately: 
En  retudi  panda  nasti  abela  macha.  "  Between 
closed  lips  no  fly  can  pass." 


ARSENE   GUILLOT 


ARSENE    GUILLOT 


*EcrOXjbv  tovr, 

HOMER,  n,  xxii,  860. 


THE  last  mass  had  been  said  at  Saint 
Roch,  and  the  beadle  was  making  his 
rounds  to  close  the  deserted  chapels. 
He  was  about  to  draw  the  grille  to  one  of  those 
aristocratic  sanctuaries  where  certain  devotees 
purchase  permission  to  worship  God,  apart  from 
the  rest  of  the  faithful,  when  he  observed  that 
a  woman  was  there  still,  apparently  absorbed  in 
meditation  and  prayer.  "It  is  Madame  de 
Piennes,"  he  said  to  himself,  pausing  at  the 
door  of  the  chapel.  Madame  de  Piennes  was 
well  known  to  the  beadle.  At  that  epoch,  a 
woman  of  the  world,  young,  rich  and  pretty, 
who  gave  the  consecrated  bread,  donated  the 
altar  cloths,  and  made  large  contributions  to 
charity  through  the  agency  of  her  curate,  de- 

*  Paris  and  Phoebus  Apollo  shall  destroy  thee,  even  although  thou 
art  worthy,  beside  the  Skoean  gate. — Homer,  ii,  xxii,  360. 

Ill 


112  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

served  some  credit  for  being  devout,  when  she 
had  not  a  husband  in  the  employ  of  the  govern- 
ment, and  had  nothing  to  gain  by  frequenting 
the  churches,  aside  from  her  salvation.  Such  was 
Madame  de  Piennes. 

The  beadle  wished  to  go  to  his  dinner,  for 
people  of  his  class  dine  at  one  o'clock,  but  he 
dared  not  disturb  the  devotions  of  a  person  so 
distinguished  in  the  parish  of  Saint-Roch.  He 
walked  away  therefore,  making  his  worn  shoes 
resound  upon  the  flags,  hoping  to  find  the  chapel 
empty  upon  his  return  after  finishing  the  rounds 
of  the  church. 

He  had  gained  the  other  side  of  the  choir 
when  a  young  woman  entered  the  church  and 
began  walking  up  and  down  a  side  aisle,  look- 
ing curiously  at  her  surroundings.  Reredos, 
stations,  holy-water  fonts  appeared  as  strange 
to  her,  as  would  appear  to  you,  madam,  the 
sacred  niche  or  the  inscriptions  of  a  mosque  in 
Cairo.  She  was  about  twenty-five  years  old, 
though  to  a  casual  observer  she  would  have  ap- 
peared much  older.  Although  very  brilliant, 
her  black  eyes  were  sunken,  and  encircled  by 
dark  rings;  her  sallow  complexion  and  discol- 
oured lips  were  indicative  of  suffering,  and  yet 
a  certain  air  of  audacity  and  gaiety  in  her  bear- 
ing contrasted  strangely  with  her  sickly  appear- 
ance. In  her  dress  you  would  have  remarked  a 


ARS^NE  GUILLOT  113 

grotesque  mingling  of  carelessness  and  studied 
elegance.  Her  rose-coloured  bonnet,  adorned 
with  artificial  flowers,  would  have  been  more  in 
keeping  with  an  evening  toilet.  Beneath  a  long 
cashmere  shawl,  of  which  the  experienced  eye  of 
a  woman  would  have  discerned  she  was  not  the 
original  owner,  was  hidden  a  cheap  cotton  frock, 
a  little  the  worse  for  wear.  Finally,  only  a 
man  would  have  admired  her  feet,  incased  as 
they  were  in  worn  stockings,  and  felt  shoes 
which  bore  the  marks  of  long  contact  with  the 
pavements — you  will  recall,  madam,  that  asphalt 
had  not  yet  been  invented. 

That  woman,  whose  social  position  you  have 
already  divined,  approached  the  chapel  still  oc- 
cupied by  Madame  de  Piennes,  and  regarding 
her  a  moment  with  a  troubled  and  embarrassed 
air,  she  accosted  her  when  she  saw  that  she  had 
arisen  and  was  about  to  depart. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,  madam,"  she  demanded 
in  a  low  voice,  and  with  a  smile  of  timidity, 
"  can  you  tell  me  to  whom  I  should  address  my- 
self in  order  to  offer  a  wax  taper?  " 

The  language  was  so  strange  to  the  ears  of 
Madame  de  Piennes  that  she  did  not  understand 
at  first.  She  repeated  the  question  to  herself. 

*  Yes,  I  wish  very  much  to  offer  a  wax  taper 
to  Saint  Roch ;  but  I  know  not  to  whom  I  should 
give  the  money." 


114  ARSENE    GUILLOT 

Madame  de  Piennes  was  too  enlightened  to 
believe  in  the  popular  superstitions.  Neverthe- 
less she  respected  them;  for  there  is  something 
touching  in  all  forms  of  worship,  however  crude 
they  may  be.  Persuaded  that  it  was  a  question 
pertaining  to  a  vow,  or  something  of  that  na- 
ture, and  too  charitable  to  draw  from  the  cos- 
tume of  the  young  woman  in  rose-coloured 
bonnet,  conclusions  which  you  perhaps  have  not 
scrupled  to  form,  she  referred  her  to  the  beadle 
who  was  coming  toward  them.  The  stranger 
thanked  her,  and  hastening  to  meet  that  man, 
she  repeated  to  him  her  wish,  which  he  seemed 
to  understand  at  half  a  word.  While  Madame 
de  Piennes  was  gathering  up  her  prayer-book 
and  adjusting  her  veil,  she  saw  the  lady  of  the 
taper  draw  a  small  purse  from  her  pocket,  se- 
lect a  single  five-franc  piece  from  many  smaller 
coins,  and  give  it  to  the  beadle,  whispering 
meanwhile,  minute  instructions  to  which  he  gave 
smiling  attention. 

The  two  women  left  the  church  at  the  same 
time,  but  she  of  the  taper  walked  very  fast,  and 
Madame  de  Piennes  soon  lost  sight  of  her,  al- 
though her  path  lay  in  the  same  direction.  At 
the  corner  of  the  street  where  she  resided  she 
again  encountered  her.  Beneath  her  cashmere 
shawl,  the  stranger  endeavoured  to  hide  a  loaf 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  115 

of  bread  which  she  had  just  purchased  at  a 
neighbouring  bakery.  When  she  saw  Madame 
de  Piennes  she  dropped  her  head,  smiled  invol- 
untarily, and  hastened  her  footsteps.  Her  smile 
seemed  to  say:  "How  can  I  help  it?  I  am 
poor.  Laugh  at  me  if  you  choose.  I  am  aware 
that  one  does  not  buy  bread  in  a  rose-coloured 
bonnet  and  cashmere  shawl."  This  mingling  of 
bashfulness,  resignation,  and  good  humour  did 
not  escape  the  notice  of  Madame  de  Piennes. 
She  thought  of  the  probable  position  of  that 
young  girl  with  sadness.  "  Her  piety,"  she  said 
to  herself,  "  is  more  meritorious  than  mine. 
Assuredly  her  offering  of  a  five-franc  piece  is 
a  much  greater  sacrifice  than  the  superfluity 
which  I  donate  to  charity,  without  imposing  the 
least  privation  upon  myself."  Then  she.  re- 
membered the  widow's  mite,  more  acceptable  to 
God  than  the  ostentatious  alms-giving  of  the 
rich.  "  I  do  not  do  enough  good,"  she  thought; 
"  I  do  not  do  all  that  I  should."  While  thus 
addressing  to  herself  mentally  the  reproaches 
which  she  was  far  from  meriting,  she  reached 
her  own  door.  The  wax  taper,  the  penny  loaf, 
and  specially  the  offering  of  her  only  five- 
franc  piece,  had  impressed  upon  the  memory  of 
Madame  de  Piennes  the  face  of  the  young 
woman  whom  she  regarded  as  a  model  of  piety. 


116  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

She  frequently  saw  her  afterward  in  the 
street  leading  to  the  church,  but  never  at  the 
service.  Whenever  the  stranger  passed  Madame 
de  Piennes  she  dropped  her  head  and  smiled 
faintly.  That  humble  smile  pleased  Madame  de 
Piennes.  She  would  have  been  glad  of  an  oc- 
casion to  befriend  the  poor  girl,  who  at  first  had 
aroused  her  interest,  and  who  now  excited  her 
pity;  for  she  noticed  that  the  rose-coloured  bon- 
net was  fading  and  that  the  cashmere  shawl  had 
disappeared.  Doubtless  it  had  been  returned  to 
the  pawnbroker. 

It  was  evident  that  Saint  Roch  had  not  re- 
paid a  hundredfold  the  offering  which  had  been 
made  to  him. 

One  day  Madame  de  Piennes  saw  a  coffin 
borne  into  the  church,  followed  by  a  poorly  clad 
man,  with  not  even  a  band  of  crape  upon  his 
hat;  he  was  evidently  a  porter.  For  more  than 
a  month  she  had  not  met  the  young  woman  of 
the  taper,  and  the  idea  came  to  her  that  she  was 
assisting  at  her  burial.  Nothing  was  more  prob- 
able, pale  and  emaciated  as  she  was  the  last  time 
that  Madame  de  Piennes  had  seen  her.  The 
beadle  being  questioned,  he  interrogated  in  turn 
the  man  who  followed  the  coffin.  He  replied 
that  he  was  the  porter  of  a  house  in  Louis  le 
Grand  Street;  that  a  tenant  had  died,  one 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  117 

Madame  Guillot,  who  had  neither  relatives  nor 
friends,  with  the  exception  of  one  daughter, 
and  that  out  of  the  pure  kindness  of  his  heart 
he,  the  porter,  was  attending  the  funeral  of  a 
person  who  was  nothing  to  him.  Madame  de 
Piennes  imagined  at  once  that  her  stranger  had 
died  in  her  misery,  leaving  a  motherless  child 
without  care,  and  promised  herself  to  send  a 
priest,  whom  she  usually  employed  in  dispens- 
ing her  charities,  to  inquire  into  the  case. 

Three  days  later,  as  she  was  going  for  a 
drive,  a  cart  crosswise  of  the  street  arrested  her 
carriage  for  a  few  moments.  In  looking  care- 
lessly out  of  the  carriage  door  she  saw,  sitting 
in  the  cart,  the  young  girl  whom  she  had  be- 
lieved to  be  dead.  She  readily  recognised  her, 
although  she  was  more  pale  and  emaciated  than 
ever,  dressed  in  mourning,  though  poorly  so, 
with  neither  gloves  nor  hat.  She  had  a  strange 
expression.  Instead  of  her  accustomed  smile, 
all  of  her  features  were  drawn;  her  great  black 
eyes  were  haggard;  she  turned  them  toward 
Madame  de  Piennes,  but  without  recognition, 
for  she  saw  nothing.  Her  countenance  was  ex- 
pressive of  a  fierce  determination  rather  than 
sorrow.  The  cart  turned  aside,  and  the  car- 
riage of  Madame  de  Piennes  rolled  rapidly 
away;  but  the  picture  of  the  young  girl  and  her 


118  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

expression  of  despair  haunted  her  for  several 
hours. 

Upon  her  return  she  saw  a  great  crowd  of 
people  in  her  street.  All  the  portresses  were  at 
their  street  doors,  telling  some  story,  to  which 
their  neighbours  listened  with  a  lively  interest. 
The  mob  was  especially  dense  in  front  of  a 
house  near  to  the  one  inhabited  by  Madame  de 
Piennes  herself.  All  eyes  were  turned  toward 
an  open  window  at  the  third  story,  and  in  each 
little  group  one  or  two  arms  were  raised  to 
point  it  out  to  public  notice;  then  suddenly 
the  arms  dropped,  and  all  eyes  followed  the 
movement.  Some  extraordinary  thing  had 
happened. 

Passing  through  her  antechamber,  Madame 
de  Piennes  found  her  frightened  servants,  each 
one  pressing  toward  her,  eager  to  relate  the 
exciting  news  of  the  neighbourhood.  But  be- 
fore she  could  ask  a  single  question  her  maid 
cried : 

"Oh!  madam! — if  madam  knew!"  And 
opening  the  doors  with  incredible  swiftness,  she 
followed  her  mistress  into  the  holy  of  holies — in 
other  words,  her  dressing-room,  which  was  inac- 
cessible to  the  rest  of  the  household. 

"Ah!  madam,"  said  Mademoiselle  Joseph- 
ine, as  she  was  removing  the  shawl  of  Madame 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  119 

de  Piennes,  "  my  blood  runs  cold.  Never  have 
I  seen  anything  so  terrible;  that  is  to  say,  I 
have  not  seen  it,  although  I  reached  the  spot 
immediately  after.  But,  for  all  that " 

'  What  has  happened?  Speak  quickly, 
mademoiselle." 

'  Well,  madam,  it  is  that,  three  doors  from 
here,  a  poor  unfortunate  young  girl  threw  her- 
self from  a  window,  not  three  minutes  ago;  if 
madam  had  arrived  a  minute  sooner  she  would 
have  heard  the  crash." 

"  Merciful  Heaven  1  And  the  poor  creature 
killed  herself? " 

"  Madam,  it  is  horrible.  Baptiste,  who  has 
been  to  the  war,  says  that  he  has  never  seen 
anything  equal  to  it.  From  the  third  story, 
madam." 

"  Was  she  killed  instantly?  " 

"  Oh !  madam,  she  was  still  alive,  she  even 
spoke.  '  I  wish  some  one  would  put  me  out  of 
my  misery,'  she  said.  Her  bones  were  in  pulp. 
Madam  can  imagine  what  a  terrible  fall  she 
had." 

"  But  that  poor  soul — has  any  one  gone  to 
her?  Did  any  one  send  for  a  doctor,  a  priest? " 

"  For  a  priest — madam  knows  better  than 
I,  of  course.  But  if  I  were  a  priest —  A 
creature  so  abandoned  as  to  kill  herself!  Be- 


120  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

sides,  this  one  was  so  bad — one  could  see  that 
readily  enough.  She  belonged  to  the  opera,  I 
was  told.  All  of  those  creatures  come  to  some 
bad  end.  She  placed  herself  before  the  window, 
tied  her  skirts  about  her  with  a  rose-coloured 
ribbon,  and " 

"It  is  that  poor  girl  in  mourning!"  cried 
Madame  de  Piennes,  speaking  to  herself. 

'  Yes,  madam,  her  mother  died  three  or 
four  days  ago.  Her  head  may  have  been  turned 
with  grief.  With  all  that,  perhaps  her  lover 
left  her  in  the  lurch — and  then  the  end  came — 
]STo  money;  such  people  don't  know  how  to 
work —  Bad  heads!  By-and-by  misfortune 
comes— 

Mademoiselle  Josephine  continued  in  this 
strain  for  some  time,  unheeded  by  Madame  de 
Piennes.  She  seemed  to  be  thinking  sadly  over 
the  story  she  had  just  heard.  Suddenly  she 
demanded  of  Mademoiselle  Josephine: 

"  Does  any  one  know  if  that  poor  girl  has 
what  she  needs  in  her  present  condition — linen, 
pillows?  I  wish  to  know  immediately." 

"  I  will  go  and  make  inquiries  for  madam, 
if  madam  wishes,"  cried  the  maid,  delighted  at 
the  chance  of  seeing  at  close  range  a  woman 
who  had  wished  to  kill  herself.  Then,  reflecting : 

"  But,"  she  added,  "  I  do  not  know  as  I 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  121 

would  have  the  strength  to  see  that — a  woman 
who  has  fallen  from  the  third  story!  When 
they  bled  Baptiste  it  made  me  quite  ill.  Even 
that  was  too  much  for  me." 

'  Very  well,  send  Baptiste,"  cried  Madame 
de  Piennes;  "  but  let  me  know  at  once  how  that 
poor  child  is."  Fortunately  her  own  physician, 
Dr.  K—  — ,  arrived  as  she  was  giving  that  order. 
He  came  to  dine  with  her,  as  was  his  custom 
every  Tuesday,  the  day  of  Italian  opera. 

"  Hurry,  doctor,"  she  cried  to  him,  without 
giving  him  time  to  put  down  his  walking-stick 
or  lay  aside  his  wadded  greatcoat ;  "  Baptiste 
will  lead  you  two  steps  from  here.  A  poor 
young  girl  has  thrown  herself  out  of  a  window, 
and  is  without  assistance." 

"  Out  of  a  window? "  said  the  doctor.  "If 
it  was  high,  probably  there  is  nothing  for  me 
to  do." 

The  doctor  would  have  preferred  to  dine 
rather  than  perform  an  operation,  but  Madame 
de  Piennes  insisted,  and  upon  her  promise  that 
the  dinner  should  be  delayed  he  consented  to 
follow  Baptiste. 

The  latter  returned  in  a  few  minutes  in 
quest  of  linen,  pillows,  etc.  At  the  same  time 
he  brought  the  opinion  of  the  doctor. 

"It  is  nothing  serious.     She  will  recover,  if 


122  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

she  doesn't  die  of — I  don't  remember  what  he 
said  she  might  die  of,  but  it  ended  in  us." 

"Of  tetanus!"  exclaimed  Madame  de 
Piennes. 

"  Precisely,  madam ;  but  it  was  very  for- 
tunate that  the  doctor  arrived  as  he  did,  for 
there  was  already  a  quack  doctor  there,  the  same 
one  that  treated  little  Berthelot  for  the  measles, 
and  she  was  dead  at  his  third  visit." 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  the  doctor  reappeared, 
his  hair  slightly  unpowdered  and  his  beautiful 
cambric  frill  in  disorder. 

"  These  would-be  suicides  are  born  to  good 
luck,"  he  said.  "  The  other  day  a  woman  was 
brought  to  my  hospital  who  had  shot  herself  in 
the  mouth  with  a  pistol.  A  bad  way  of  attempt- 
ing it!  She  broke  three  teeth,  made  a  hole  in 
her  left  cheek.  She  will  be  a  little  plainer-look- 
ing for  it,  and  that  is  all.  This  one  throws 
herself  from  a  third  story.  A  poor  devil  of  an 
honest  man  would  fall  accidentally  from  the 
first  and  break  his  neck.  This  girl  breaks  a 
leg.  Two  ribs  were  driven  in,  add  a  few  con- 
tusions and  all  is  said.  A  lean-to  was  oppor- 
tunely there,  which  broke  the  force  of  her  fall. 
It  is  the  third  case  of  the  kind  which  I  have 
seen  since  my  return  to  Paris.  She  fell  upon 
her  feet.  The  tibia  and  fibula  will  unite  again. 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  123 

What  is  worse  is  that  the  sauce  for  the  turbot 
is  completely  dried  up.  I  have  fears  for  the 
roast,  and  we  shall  miss  the  first  act  of '  Othello.' ' 

"  And  that  poor  girl,  did  she  tell  you  what 
drove  her  to " 

"  Oh!  I  never  listen  to  those  stories,  madam. 
I  ask  them :  '  When  did  you  eat  last,  etc.,  etc.  ? ' 
— because  that  is  important  for  the  treatment. 
Zounds!  when  one  kills  himself  it  is  for  some 
bad  reason.  A  lover  leaves  you,  a  landlord 
turns  you  out  of  doors;  one  jumps  from  the 
window  to  be  revenged.  But  one  is  no  sooner 
in  the  air  than  he  repents  of  it." 

"  She  is  repentant,  I  hope,  the  poor  child? " 

"  Doubtless,  doubtless.  She  wept  and  made 
noise  enough  to  deafen  me.  Baptiste  is  a  fa- 
mous assistant,  madam;  he  was  much  better 
than  a  medical  student  who  was  there,  and  who 
scratched  his  head,  not  knowing  where  to  begin. 
The  saddest  thing  in  her  case  is  that  she  escapes 
death  by  suicide  only  to  die  of  consumption; 
for  that  she  is  a  consumptive  I  would  take  my 
oath.  I  did  not  auscultate,  but  the  fades  never 
deceives  me.  To  be  in  such  haste,  when  one  has 
only  to  wait  so  short  a  time! " 

'  You  will  see  her  to-morrow,  doctor,  will 
you  not? " 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  me  to.     I  assured 


124  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

her  that  you  would  do  something  for  her.  The 
best  thing  would  be  to  send  her  to  a  hospital. 
There  she  would  be  furnished,  gratis,  an  appli- 
ance for  the  reduction  of  her  leg.  But  at  the 
word  '  hospital '  she  cried  that  that  would  finish 
her,  and  all  the  old  gossips  joined  in  chorus. 
However,  when  one  hasn't  a  penny 

"  I  will  bear  the  small  expense  necessary, 
doctor.  I  confess  that  that  word  terrifies  me 
also,  in  spite  of  myself,  like  the  gossips  of  whom 
you  speak.  Moreover,  to  remove  her  to  a  hos- 
pital, now  that  she  is  in  such  a  horrible  condi- 
tion, would  be  the  death  of  her." 

"Prejudice!  pure  prejudice  on  the  part  of 
the  public.  One  is  nowhere  as  well  off  as  in  a 
hospital,  and  when  my  time  comes  to  be  ferried 
over  the  Styx,  it  is  from  there  that  I  wish  to 
embark  in  Charon's  boat;  I  shall  bequeath  my 
body  to  the  students — thirty  or  forty  years 
hence,  of  course.  Seriously,  my  dear,  consider 
well :  I  am  not  sure  that  your  protegee  is  worthy 
of  your  interest.  She  appears  to  me  like  some 
ballet  girl — it  requires  the  legs  of  a  ballet  dancer 
to  make  a  leap  like  that  so  happily 

"  But  I  have  seen  her  at  the  church — and, 
well,  doctor,  you  know  my  weakness;  I  con- 
struct a  complete  story  upon  a  face,  a  glance. 
Laugh  as  much  as  you  please,  I  am  rarely  de- 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  125 

ceived.  That  poor  girl  has  made  recently  a 
votive  offering  for  her  mother,  who  was  ill. 
Her  mother  died.  Then  she  lost  her  reason. 
Despair  and  misery  drove  her  to  that  terrible 
deed." 

*  Very  well !  Yes,  in  fact,  she  has  upon  the 
top  of  her  head  a  protuberance  which  indicates 
exaggeration.  All  that  you  say  is  quite  prob- 
able. You  remind  me  that  there  was  a  palm- 
branch  above  her  cot -bed.  That  is  proof  of  her 
piety,  is  it  not? " 

"A  cot-bed!  Ah!  how  pitiful!  Poor  girl! 
But,  doctor,  you  have  that  wicked  little  smile 
that  I  know  so  well.  I  am  not  speaking  of  the 
devoutness  which  she  has  or  has  not.  That 
which  especially  impels  me  to  interest  myself  in 
that  girl  is  that  I  have  to  reproach  myself  on 
her  account 

'  To  reproach  yourself?  I  have  it.  Doubt- 
less you  should  have  ordered  cushions  placed  in 
the  street  to  receive  her? " 

"  Yes,  to  reproach  myself.  I  noticed  her 
destitution,  I  ought  to  have  sent  her  assistance; 
but  poor  Father  Dubignon  was  ill,  and 

'  You  must  indeed  suffer  from  remorse, 
madam,  if  you  think  it  is  not  doing  enough  to 
give,  as  is  your  custom,  to  all  who  beg  openly; 
it  is  incumbent  upon  you  also  to  seek  out  those 


126  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

who  are  too  proud  to  beg.  But,  madam,  let 
us  talk  no  more  of  broken  legs — or  rather,  three 
words  more.  If  you  are  going  to  take  my  new 
patient  under  your  protection,  order  for  her  a 
better  bed,  a  nurse  to-morrow — the  gossips  will 
do  well  enough  for  to-day — broths,  cough  mix- 
tures, etc.  And  it  would  not  be  a  bad  idea  to 
send  to  her  some  kind-hearted  priest,  who  will 
comfort  her  and  mend  her  morals,  as  I  have 
mended  her  leg.  That  young  woman  is  ner- 
vous; we  may  have  to  meet  sudden  complica- 
tions. You  would  be — yes,  now  that  I  think 
of  it,  you  would  be  the  very  best  comforter;  but 
you  have  to  adapt  your  sermons  better.  I  am 
done.  It  is  half  after  eight;  for  the  love  of 
God,  go  and  get  ready  for  the  opera.  Baptiste 
will  bring  me  some  coffee  and  the  daily  paper. 
I  have  been  too  busy  to-day  to  learn  what  is 
going  on  in  the  world." 

Several  days  passed,  and  the  invalid  was  a 
little  better.  The  doctor  only  complained  that 
the  moral  excitement  did  not  diminish. 

"  I  have  no  great  faith  in  any  of  your  abbes," 
he  said  to  Madame  de  Piennes.  "  If  the  sight 
of  human  suffering  were  not  too  repulsive  to 
you,  and  I  know  that  you  have  the  courage,  you 
could  soothe  the  mind  of  that  poor  child  better 
than  any  preacher  of  Saint  Roch." 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  127 

Madame  de  Piennes  asked  nothing  better, 
and  proposed  to  go  with  him  at  once.  They 
climbed  the  stairs  to  the  chamber  of  the  sick 
girl. 

In  a  chamber  furnished  with  three  rush- 
bottomed  chairs  and  a  small  table  she  was 
stretched  upon  a  comfortable  bed,  the  gift  of 
Madame  de  Piennes.  The  fine  linen  sheets, 
thick  mattress,  and  a  pile  of  large  pillows  indi- 
cated a  thoughtful  attention,  the  author  of  which 
you  will  readily  guess.  The  young  girl,  hor- 
ribly pale,  with  burning  eyes,  had  one  arm  out- 
side of  the  coverlet,  and  that  portion  of  the  arm 
below  the  sleeve  was  livid  and  bruised,  indicat- 
ing the  condition  of  the  rest  of  her  body.  When 
she  saw  Madame  de  Piennes  she  raised  her  head, 
and  with  a  smile,  sweet  and  sad: 

"  I  knew  very  well  that  it  was  you  who  have 
had  pity  upon  me,  madam,"  she  said.  '  They 
told  me  your  name,  and  I  was  sure  that  it  was 
the  lady  whom  I  had  seen  at  Saint  Roch." 

It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  already  said  to 
you  that  Madame  de  Piennes  made  some  pre- 
tensions of  divining  people  by  their  appearance. 
She  was  delighted  to  discover  a  similar  talent 
in  her  protegee,  and  that  discovery  interested  her 
still  further  in  her  favour. 

"  This  room  is  not  very  cheerful,  my  poor 


128  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

child! "  she  said,  casting  a  glance  over  the  som- 
bre furnishings  of  the  chamber.  "  Why  have 
they  not  sent  you  some  curtains?  You  must 
ask  Baptiste  for  any  little  articles  which  you 
need." 

'  You  are  very  kind,  madam.  But  what 
more  do  I  need?  Nothing.  This  is  the  end. 
A  little  better  or  a  little  worse,  what  does  it 
matter? " 

And,  turning  her  head,  she  began  to  weep. 

"  Do  you  suffer  much,  my  poor  child? "  in- 
quired Madame  de  Piennes,  seating  herself  be- 
side the  bed. 

"  No,  not  much,  only  I  have  always  in  my 
ears  the  rushing  sound  as  of  wind  when  I  fell, 
and  then  the  noise — crack!  when  I  struck  the 
pavement." 

'  You  were  mad  then,  my  dear ;  you  are 
sorry  for  it  now,  are  you  not? " 

"  Yes ;  but  when  people  are  unhappy,  they 
are  no  longer  in  their  right  mind." 

"  I  deeply  regret  that  I  did  not  know  your 
position  sooner.  But,  my  child,  under  no  cir- 
cumstances ought  we  to  abandon  ourselves  to 
despair." 

"  That  is  easy  enough  for  you  to  say,"  said 
the  doctor,  who  was  writing  a  prescription  at 
the  little  table.  "  You  do  not  know  what  it 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  129 

means  to  lose  a  fine,  mustachioed  young  man. 
But,  zounds!  it  is  not  necessary  to  jump  out  of 
the  window  in  order  to  run  after  him." 

"For  shame,  doctor!"  said  Madame  de 
Piennes ;  "  the  poor  girl  doubtless  had  other 
motives  for— 

"Ah!  I  don't  know  what  I  had,"  cried  the 
sick  girl ;  "a  hundred  reasons  in  one.  In  the 
first  place,  when  mamma  died  it  was  a  terrible 
blow.  Then  I  felt  myself  abandoned — nobody 
left  to  care  for  me!  Finally,  somebody  who 
was  more  to  me  than  all  the  world —  Madam, 
to  forget  even  my  name !  yes,  my  name  is  Arsene 
Guillot — G,  U,  I,  two  L's;  he  spelled  it  with 
a  Y." 

"  Just  as  I  said,  a  faithless  lover!  "  cried  the 
doctor.  "  That  is  always  the  case.  Tut,  tut,  my 
beauty,  forget  him.  A  man  without  a  memory 
is  unworthy  of  a  thought."  He  looked  at  his 
watch.  "  Four  o'clock?  "  he  said,  arising;  "  I  am 
late  for  my  consultation.  Madam,  I  beg  ten 
thousand  pardons,  but  I  must  leave  you;  I 
haven't  even  the  time  to  escort  you  home.  Good- 
bye, my  child.  Calm  yourself,  that  will  amount 
to  nothing.  You  will  be  able  to  dance  just  as 
well  on  that  foot  as  the  other.  And  you,  nurse, 
have  this  prescription  filled,  and  continue  the 
same  treatment  as  yesterday." 


130  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

The  doctor  and  the  nurse  had  gone  out. 
Madame  de  Piennes  remained  alone  with  the 
sick  girl,  a  little  alarmed  at  finding  a  love  affair 
in  a  history  which  she  had  arranged  quite  other- 
wise in  her  imagination. 

"  So  somebody  deceived  you,  unhappy 
child! "  she  resumed  after  a  brief  silence. 

"  Me !  no.  How  deceive  a  miserable  girl  like 
me?  Simply  he  no  longer  cared  for  me.  He 
was  right;  I  am  not  what  he  needs.  He  has 
always  been  good  and  generous.  I  had  written 
to  him  to  tell  him  where  I  was,  and  if  he  wished 
me  to  come  to  him.  Then  he  wrote  me — things 
which  gave  me  much  pain.  The  other  day,  when 
I  returned  home,  I  let  fall  a  mirror  which  he 
had  given  me,  a  Venetian  mirror  he  said.  The 
mirror  was  broken.  I  said  to  myself:  '  This  is 
the  last  stroke ! '  It  is  a  sign  that  all  is  at  an 
end  between  us — I  had  nothing  left  of  his.  I 
had  placed  all  the  jewels  in  pawn —  And 
then  I  said  to  myself,  that  if  I  were  to  take 
my  life,  that  would  be  a  grief  to  him,  and  I 
should  be  revenged.  The  window  was  open,  and 
I  threw  myself  out." 

"  But,  miserable  girl,  the  motive  was  as 
frivolous  as  the  act  was  criminal." 

"  Well  and  good!  But  how  can  it  be  helped? 
When  one  is  sorrowful,  one  does  not  reflect.  It 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  131 

is  very  easy  for  happy  people  to  say:  '  Be  rea- 
sonable/ ' 

*  Yes,  I  know.  Misfortune  is  a  bad  coun- 
sellor. But  even  in  the  midst  of  the  greatest 
trials  there  are  things  that  one  should  not  for- 
get. I  saw  you  perform  an  act  of  piety  at  Saint 
Roch  but  recently.  You  have  the  support  which 
comes  from  Christian  faith.  Religion,  my  dear, 
should  prevent  you  from  abandoning  yourself 
to  despair.  The  good  God  has  given  you 
your  life;  it  does  not  belong  to  you.  But  I 
am  doing  wrong  to  scold  you  now,  my  dear. 
You  repent,  you  suffer,  God  will  have  mercy 
upon  you." 

Arsene  bowed  her  head  and  her  eyes  were 
bathed  in  tears. 

"Alas I  madam,"  she  said,  sighing  deeply, 
"  you  believe  me  to  be  better  than  I  am.  You 
believe  me  to  be  pious,  but  I  am  not  very.  I 
have  never  been  taught,  and  if  you  saw  me  at 
the  church,  offering  a  wax-taper,  it  was  because 
I  didn't  know  which  way  to  turn." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  it  was  a  happy  thought. 
When  trouble  comes,  always  go  to  God  for  com- 
fort." 

"  Somebody  told  me — that  if  I  were  to  offer 
a  wax-taper  to  Saint  Roch — but  no,  madam,  I 
ought  not  to  tell  you  that.  A  lady  like  you  does 


132  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

not  know  what  people  do  when  they  have  spent 
their  last  penny." 

"It  is  courage  above  all  things  that  one 
should  ask  of  God." 

"  After  all,  madam,  I  do  not  wish  you  to 
think  me  better  than  I  am,  and  it  is  robbing  you 
to  profit  by  the  charities  which  you  do  without 
knowing  me.  I  am  an  unfortunate  girl — but  in 
this  world  one  lives  as  he  can.  To  have  done, 
madam,  I  offered  the  taper  because  my  mother 
said  that  when  one  offers  a  taper  to  Saint  Roch 
one  never  fails  to  find  a  lover  within  the  week. 
But  I  have  lost  my  good  looks,  I  look  like  a 
mummy.  Nobody  cares  for  me  any  more.  Ah, 
well,  there  is  nothing  left  but  to  die.  Already 
it  is  half  accomplished." 

All  that  was  said  very  rapidly,  in  a  voice 
broken  by  sobs,  and  with  an  accent  so  frenzied 
that  Madame  de  Piennes  was  more  inspired  with 
fright  than  with  horror.  Involuntarily  she  drew 
away  from  the  bedside  of  the  invalid.  Perhaps 
she  would  have  left  the  chamber  if  her  humanity 
had  not  been  stronger  than  her  disgust  for 
that  lost  creature,  and  prevented  her  from  leav- 
ing her  alone  at  a  moment  when  she  was  a  prey 
to  the  most  violent  despair.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment of  silence;  then  Madame  de  Piennes,  with 
drooping  eyelids,  murmured  faintly: 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  133 

'  Your  mother !  Unhappy  girl !  What  dare 
you  to  say? " 

"  Oh,  my  mother  was  like  all  mothers,  all 
mothers  of  our  class.  She  provided  for  her 
mother,  I  supported  her  in  turn.  Fortunately, 
I  have  no  child.  I  see,  madam,  that  I  frighten 
you,  but  how  could  it  be  helped?  You  have  been 
delicately  reared.  You  have  never  endured 
suffering.  When  one  is  rich  it  is  easy  to  be 
virtuous.  I,  too,  would  have  been  virtuous 
if  I  had  had  the  means.  I  have  had  many 
lovers.  I  never  loved  but  one  man.  He  has 
brought  me  to  this.  If  I  had  been  rich  we 
would  have  married.  We  would  have  reared  a 
virtuous  family.  Think  of  it,  madam.  I  talk 
to  you  like  that,  so  frankly,  although  I  can  see 
what  you  think  of  me,  and  you  are  right.  But 
you  are  the  only  virtuous  woman  to  whom  I  have 
ever  spoken  in  my  life,  and  you  appear  to  be  so 
kind,  so  good! — that  I  said  to  myself:  'Even 
when  she  knows  me  she  will  pity  me.'  I  am 
going  to  die.  I  request  but  one  thing  of  you. 
That  is,  when  I  am  dead,  to  have  one  mass  said 
for  me,  in  the  church  where  I  saw  you  for  the 
first  time.  Only  one  prayer,  and  I  thank  you 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart— 

"No,  you  will  not  die!"  cried  Madame  de 
Piennes,  greatly  moved.  "  God  will  have  mercy 


134  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

upon  you,  poor  sinner.  You  will  repent  of  your 
misdemeanours,  and  He  will  pardon  you.  If  my 
prayers  can  do  aught  for  your  salvation  they 
will  not  be  wanting.  They  who  have  reared  you 
are  more  guilty  than  you.  Only  have  cour- 
age and  hope.  Try  to  be  more  calm,  my  poor 
child.  It  is  necessary  to  heal  the  body;  the 
soul  is  sick  also,  but  I  charge  myself  with  its 
healing.'" 

She  arose  as  she  said  that,  and  folding  a  little 
roll  of  gold  pieces: 

"  Take  this,"  she  said;  "  if  you  have  a  wish 
for  anything " 

And  she  slipped  her  little  present  under  the 
pillow. 

"  No,  madam,"  cried  Arsene,  impetuously 
thrusting  the  paper  aside,  "  I  wish  nothing  of 
you  but  what  you  have  promised.  Farewell,  we 
shall  never  meet  again.  Have  me  taken  to  a 
hospital,  that  I  may  die  without  troubling  any 
one.  You  would  never  be  able  to  make  anything 
of  me.  A  great  lady  like  you  will  have  prayed 
for  me;  I  am  content.  Farewell." 

And  turning  herself  as  well  as  she  was  able, 
she  hid  her  head  in  the  pillow  in  order  to  see 
nothing  more. 

"  Listen,  Arsene,"  said  Madame  de  Piennes 
in  a  serious  tone.  "  I  have  plans  concerning  you. 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  135 

I  wish  to, make  of  you  a  good  woman.  I  am 
sure  that  you  are  repentant.  I  am  coming  to  see 
you  often.  I  am  going  to  take  care  of  you. 
Some  day  you  will  owe  to  me  your  proper  self- 
respect." 

And  she  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  gently. 

'  You  have  touched  me!  "  cried  the  poor  girl, 
"you  have  pressed  my  hand." 

And  before  Madame  de  Piennes  could  draw 
her  hand  away  she  had  seized  it,  and  had  cov- 
ered it  with  her  kisses  and  her  tears. 

"  Calm  yourself,  calm  yourself,  my  dear," 
said  Madame  de  Piennes,  "  tell  me  nothing  more. 
Now  I  know  all  about  it  and  I  know  you  better 
than  you  know  yourself.  It  is  I  who  am  the 
doctor  for  your  head — your  poor,  disordered 
head.  I  shall  require  you  to  obey  me,  just  as 
you  do  your  other  doctor.  I  will  send  you  one 
of  my  friends  who  is  a  preacher,  you  will  listen 
to  him.  I  will  select  some  good  books  for  you 
to  read.  We  will  have  some  little  talks,  you  and 
I,  and  then,  when  you  are  better,  we  will  make 
plans  for  your  future." 

The  nurse  came  back  from  the  drug  store 
with  the  bottle  of  medicine.  Arsene  continued  to 
weep.  Madame  de  Piennes  pressed  her  hand 
once  more,  placed  the  roll  of  gold  pieces  upon 
the  little  table  and  departed,  more  kindly  dis- 


136  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

posed  toward  her  penitent,  perhaps,  than  before 
she  had  heard  her  strange  confession. 

Why  is  it,  madam,  that  one  always  loves 
the  erring  ones?  From  the  prodigal  son  to  your 
dog  Diamond,  who  snaps  at  everybody,  and  is 
the  very  worst  little  beast  that  I  know.  One 
is  the  most  interested  in  those  who  deserve  it  the 
least.  Vanity!  pure  vanity,  madam,  that  senti- 
ment there!  pride  over  a  difficulty  conquered! 
The  father  of  the  prodigal  son  conquered  the 
devil  and  robbed  him  of  his  prey;  you  subdued 
the  viciousness  of  Diamond  by  coaxing  him  with 
tid-bits.  Madame  de  Piennes  was  proud  to  have 
conquered  the  perversity  of  a  courtesan,  to 
have  destroyed  by  her  eloquence,  barriers  which 
twenty  years  of  vice  had  builded  around  a  poor 
abandoned  soul.  And  then,  perhaps,  shall  I  say 
it?  to  the  pride  of  that  victory,  to  the  pleasure 
of  having  done  a  good  deed,  there  was  added  the 
sentiment  of  curiosity  which  many  virtuous 
women  have  to  know  a  woman  of  the  other  sort. 
When  a  public  singer  enters  a  drawing-room 
I  have  remarked  the  looks  of  curiosity  turned 
toward  her.  It  is  not  the  men  who  observe  her 
the  most  closely.  You,  yourself,  madam,  the 
other  evening  at  the  theatre,  did  you  not  look 
with  all  your  eyes  at  that  variety  actress  who 
was  pointed  out  to  you  in  the  dressing-room? 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  137 

How  can  one  be  like  that?  How  often  one  asks 
himself  that  question? 

Thus,  madam,  Madame  de  Piennes  thought 
much  about  Mademoiselle  Arsene  Guillot,  and 
said  to  herself:  "  I  will  rescue  her." 

She  sent  her  a  priest,  who  exhorted  her  to 
repentance.  Repentance  was  not  difficult  for 
poor  Arsene,  who,  with  the  exception  of  a  few 
brief  hours  of  pleasure,  had  known  only  the 
miseries  of  life. 

Say  to  one  who  is  unhappy :  "It  is  your 
fault,"  and  he  is  only  half  convinced,  but  if  at 
the  same  time  you  soften  your  reproach  with  a 
little  consolation,  he  will  bless  you,  and  promise 
everything  for  the  future.  A  Greek  has  said 
somewhere,  or  rather  Amyot  puts  it  into  his 
mouth : 

The  day  that  sets  a  man  free  of  his  chains, 
Strips  him  of  half  of  his  virtue  and  pains. 

Which  returns  in  simple  prose  to  this  aphor- 
ism: Misfortune  makes  us  as  gentle  as  lambs. 
The  priest  said  to  Madame  de  Piennes  that 
while  Mademoiselle  Guillot  was  very  ignorant, 
she  was  not  bad  at  heart,  and  that  he  had  great 
hopes  of  her  salvation. 

In  truth,  Arsene  listened  to  him  with  respect- 
ful attention.  She  read  the  passages  marked  for 


138  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

her  perusal  in  the  books  chosen  for  her,  as 
scrupulous  to  obey  Madame  de  Piennes,  as  to 
follow  the  prescriptions  of  the  doctor.  But  that 
which  most  won  the  heart  of  the  good  preacher, 
and  appeared  to  her  protectress  the  strongest 
evidence  of  moral  healing,  was  the  use  made  by 
Arsene  Guillot  of  a  portion  of  the  little  sum 
which  had  been  placed  in  her  hands.  She  had 
requested  that  a  solemn  mass  be  said  at  Saint 
Roch,  for  the  soul  of  Pamela  Guillot,  her  dead 
mother.  Assuredly,  never  had  soul  greater  need 
of  the  prayers  of  the  Church 


II 


ONE  morning,  as  Madame  de  Piennes  was 
dressing,  a  servant  tapped  lightly  at  the  door 
of  the  dressing-room,  and  handed  to  Mademoi- 
selle Josephine  a  visiting  card  which  a  young 
man  had  sent  up. 

"  Max  in  Paris!  "  cried  Madame  de  Piennes, 
glancing  at  the  card;  "hurry,  mademoiselle,  tell 
M.  de  Salligny  to  wait  for  me  in  the  drawing- 
room." 

A  moment  later  laughter  and  suppressed 
cries  were  heard  in  the  drawing-room^  and 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  139 

Mademoiselle  Josephine  returned  with  a  height- 
ened colour,  and  her  cap  very  much  awry. 

'  What  is  the  matter,  mademoiselle? "  de- 
manded Madame  de  Piennes. 

"  Nothing,  madam,  only  M.  de  Salligny 
says  that  I  have  grown  fat." 

In  reality  the  plumpness  of  Mademoiselle 
Josephine  might  have  surprised  M.  de  Salligny 
who  had  been  travelling  for  more  than  two  years. 
In  days  of  old  he  had  been  a  favourite  of 
Mademoiselle  Josephine,  and  very  attentive  to 
her  mistress.  Nephew  of  an  intimate  friend  of 
Madame  de  Piennes,  he  had  been  seen  constantly 
at  her  house  in  the  train  of  his  aunt.  Moreover, 
it  was  almost  the  only  respectable  house  where 
he  was  seen.  Max  de  Salligny  had  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  worthless  fellow,  a  gambler,  quarreller, 
wine-bibber,  but  the  best  fellow  in  the  world 
withal.  He  was  the  despair  of  his  aunt,  Madame 
Aubree,  who  adored  him  nevertheless.  Many 
times  had  she  tried  to  draw  him  from  the  life 
which  he  led,  but  always  had  his  evil  habits 
triumphed  over  her  wise  counsels.  Max  was  two 
years  older  than  Madame  de  Piennes.  They  had 
known  each  other  from  childhood,  and  before 
her  marriage  he  appeared  to  regard  her  with 
more  than  a  common  interest.  Madame  Au- 
bree often  said  to  her:  "  My  dear,  if  you  chose, 


140  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

I  am  sure  that  you  could  manage  him  with  your 
little  finger."  Madame  de  Piennes — she  was 
then  Elise  de  Guicard — would  perhaps  have  had 
courage  to  attempt  the  enterprise,  for  Max  was 
so  gay,  so  witty,  so  amusing  at  a  house  party, 
so  untiring  at  a  ball,  that  surely  he  ought  to 
make  a  good  husband;  but  the  parents  of  Elise 
were  more  farseeing.  Madame  Aubree  herself 
would  not  altogether  vouch  for  her  nephew;  it 
was  ascertained  that  he  had  debts  and  a  mis- 
tress; suddenly  a  duel  took  place  over  a  per- 
former at  the  Gymnasium.  The  marriage,  which 
Madame  de  Piennes  had  never  had  very  seriously 
in  view,  was  declared  to  be  impossible.  Then 
M.  de  Piennes  presented  himself,  a  grave  and 
moral  man,  rich  moreover,  and  of  good  family. 
There  is  little  to  be  said  of  him,  excepting  that 
he  had  the  reputation  of  a  gentleman  which  he 
merited.  He  talked  little  but  when  he  did  open 
his  mouth,  it  was  to  say  something  of  impor- 
tance. Upon  doubtful  subjects  he  maintained 
a  discreet  silence.  If  he  did  not  add  great  charm 
to  assemblies  which  he  frequented,  he  was  no- 
where out  of  place.  He  was  everywhere  well 
enough  liked  because  of  his  wife,  but  when 
he  was  absent, — upon  his  estates,  as  was  the 
case  nine  months  of  the  year,  and  notably  at 
the  moment  when  my  story  begins, — nobody 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  141 

noticed    it,    his    wife    scarcely    more    than    the 
rest. 

Madame  de  Piennes,  having  finished  her 
toilet  in  five  minutes,  left  her  chamber  in  some 
agitation,  for  the  arrival  of  Max  de  Salligny  re- 
called to  her  the  recent  death  of  the  friend 
whom  she  had  loved  the  best  in  the  world;  it 
was,  I  believe,  the  sole  recollection  which  pre- 
sented itself  to  her  memory,  and  vivid  enough 
to  arrest  any  embarrassing  conjectures  that  a 
person  in  a  less  serious  frame  of  mind  would 
have  formed  over  the  crumpled  cap  of  Mad- 
emoiselle Josephine.  Upon  nearing  the  draw- 
ing-room she  was  a  little  shocked  to  hear  a  fine 
bass  voice,  gaily  singing  to  its  own  accompani- 
ment upon  the  piano  this  Neapolitan  barcarolle: 

Addio,  Teresa, 
Teresa,  addio ! 
Al  mio  ritorno, 
Ti  sposero. 

She  opened  the  door  and  interrupted  the 
singer  by  extending  to  him  her  hand: 

"  My  poor  Max,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you 
again! " 

Max  hurriedly  arose  and  shook  her  hand, 
regarding  her  wildly,  without  finding  a  single 
word  to  say. 

"  I  was  so  sorry,"   continued  Madame  de 


142  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

Piennes,  "  that  I  was  unable  to  go  to  Rome  when 
your  good  aunt  was  taken  ill.  I  know  the  tender 
care  with  which  you  surrounded  her,  and  I  thank 
you  very  much  for  the  last  souvenir  of  her  which 
you  were  kind  enough  to  send  me." 

The  face  of  Max,  naturally  bright,  not  to 
say  merry,  suddenly  became  grave. 

"  She  talked  so  much  of  you,"  he  said,  "  even 
to  the  last  moment.  You  received  her  ring  I 
see,  and  the  book  she  was  reading  the  morn- 
ing- 

'  Yes,  Max,  I  thank  you.  You  announced, 
in  sending  that  sad  present,  that  you  were  leav- 
ing Rome,  but  you  did  not  give  me  your  address ; 
I  did  not  know  where  to  write  you.  My  poor 
friend!  to  die  so  far  from  home!  Happily,  you 
hastened  to  her  immediately.  You  are  better 
than  you  wish  to  appear,  Max — I  know  you 
well." 

"My  aunt  said  to  me  during  her  illness: 
*  When  I  am  gone,  there  will  be  no  one  left  to 
scold  you  but  Madame  de  Piennes.' '  (And  he 
could  not  refrain  from  smiling.)  'Try  to  avoid 
her  scolding  you  too  often.'  You  see,  madam, 
that  you  acquit  yourself  badly  of  your  preroga- 
tive." 

"  I  hope  that  I  shall  have  a  sinecure  now. 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  143 

They  tell  me  that  you  have  reformed,  settled 
down  and  become  altogether  reasonable?  " 

"  And  you  are  not  deceived,  madam ;  I 
promised  my  poor  aunt  to  become  a  good  citizen, 
and- 

'  You  will  keep  your  promise,  I  am  sure !  " 

"  I  shall  try.  While  travelling  it  is  easier 
than  in  Paris;  however — think  of  it,  madam,  I 
am  only  here  a  few  hours,  and  already  I  have 
had  to  resist  temptation.  As  I  was  on  my  way 
here  I  met  an  old  friend  who  invited  me  to  dine 
with  a  crowd  of  worthless  fellows, — and  I  re- 
fused." 

"  You  did  quite  right." 

"  Yes,  but  need  I  say  to  you  that  I  hoped 
that  you  would  invite  me?  " 

"  How  unfortunate !  I  am  dining  out.  But 
to-morrow ' ' 


"  In  that  case,  I  no  longer  answer  for  myself. 
Yours  the  responsibility  for  the  dinner-party 
which  I  make." 

"Listen,  Max:  The  important  point  is  to 
begin  well.  Do  not  go  to  that  bachelor  dinner. 
I  am  to  dine  with  Madame  Darsenay;  come 
there  this  evening  and  we  will  talk." 

"  Yes,  but  Madame  Darsenay  is  a  little  tire- 
some; she  will  ask  me  a  hundred  questions.  I 


144  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

shall  not  be  able  to  say  one  word  to  you ;  I  shall 
say  the  improprieties;  and  besides  she  has  a  tall, 
raw-boned  daughter  who  is  perhaps  unmarried 
still- 

"  She  is  a  charming  girl — and  in  regard  to 
improprieties,  it  is  one  to  speak  of  her  as  you 
are  doing." 

"  I  am  wrong,  it  is  true;  but — as  I  have  but 
just  arrived,  would  I  not  appear  to  be  a  little 
too  attentive? " 

'Very  well,  do  as  you  please;  but  see  here, 
Max, — as  the  friend  of  your  aunt,  I  have  the 
right  to  speak  frankly  to  you — avoid  your  old 
associates.  Time  has  naturally  broken  off  the 
friendships  which  were  worthless  to  you;  do  not 
renew  them.  I  am  sure  of  you  so  long  as  you 
are  not  under  bad  influences.  At  your  age — 
at  our  age,  one  should  be  rational.  But  enough 
of  good  advice  and  sermonising!  What  have 
you  been  doing  since  we  last  met?  I  know  that 
you  travelled  through  Germany,  then  Italy;  no 
more.  You  have  written  me  twice  only,  if  you 
will  remember.  Two  letters  in  two  years,  you 
must  know  that  that  has  scarcely  kept  me  in- 
formed concerning  you." 

"  Is  it  possible,  madam?  I  am  indeed  cul- 
pable— but  I  am  so — it  must  be  confessed  I 
suppose — so  lazy! — I  commenced  writing  you 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  145 

scores  of  times,  but  what  could  I  say  to  you  that 
would  interest  you  ?  I  do  not  know  how  to  write 
letters,  I — if  I  had  written  to  you  as  often 
as  I  thought  of  you,  all  the  paper  in  Italy  would 
not  have  sufficed  for  it." 

'Very  well;  what  have  you  been  doing? 
How  have  you  occupied  yourself?  I  know  al- 
ready that  it  is  not  with  letter-writing." 

"  Occupied!  You  know  very  well  that  I 
do  not  occupy  myself,  unfortunately.  I  have 
seen,  I  have  strolled  about.  I  had  plans  of  paint- 
ing, but  the  sight  of  so  many  beautiful  pictures 
has  effectually  cured  me  of  that  useless  passion. 
Ah! — and  then  old  Nibby  almost  made  an  an- 
tiquarian of  me.  Yes,  he  persuaded  me  to  order 
an  excavation  made.  They  found  an  old  pipe, 
and  I  don't  know  how  many  bits  of  broken  pot- 
tery. And  then  at  Naples  I  took  lessons  in 
singing,  but  I  am  no  more  clever  for  it.  I 
have- 

"  I  do  not  much  approve  of  your  music,  al- 
though you  have  a  fine  voice  and  you  sing  well. 
That  puts  you  in  touch  with  people  whose  so- 
ciety you  are  altogether  too  fond  of." 

"  I  understand  you;  but  at  Naples,  when  I 
was  there  at  least,  there  was  scarcely  any  danger. 
The  prima  donna  weighed  three  hundred  pounds 
and  the  second  singer  had  a  mouth  like  an  oven, 


146  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

and  a  nose  like  the  tower  of  Lebanon.  In  short, 
two  years  have  passed  without  me  being  able 
to  say  how.  I  have  done  nothing,  learned  noth- 
ing, but  I  have  lived  two  years  almost  unper- 
ceived." 

"  I  would  like  to  know  that  you  were  occu- 
pied. I  would  like  to  see  you  have  a  lively  in- 
terest in  something  useful.  I  fear  idleness  for 

you." 

"  Frankly  speaking,  madam,  my  travels  did 
this  for  me.  While  I  accomplished  nothing,  I 
was  not  absolutely  idle.  When  one  sees  things 
of  interest,  one  is  not  bored;  and  I,  when  I  am 
bored,  am  very  apt  to  do  foolish  things.  True, 
I  have  sown  my  wild  oats,  and  I  have  likewise 
forgotten  a  certain  number  of  expeditious  ways 
which  I  had  of  spending  my  money.  My  poor 
aunt  paid  my  debts,  and  I  have  made  no  others, 
I  wish  to  make  no  others.  I  have  enough  to  live 
as  a  bachelor;  and  as  I  make  no  pretensions  of 
being  richer  than  I  am  I  shall  not  be  extrava- 
gant. You  smile;  you  do  not  believe  in  my 
reformation?  You  need  the  proof  ?  Listen  then 
to  a  fact.  To-day,  Famin,  the  friend  who  in- 
vited me  to  dinner,  wished  to  sell  me  his  horse. 
A  thousand  dollars!  He  is  a  superb  animal! 
My  first  impulse  was  to  buy  him.  Then  I  said 
to  myself  that  I  was  not  rich  enough  to  put  a 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  147 

thousand  dollars  into  a  fancy,  and  I  continued  to 
walk." 

"  It  is  marvellous,  Max.  But  do  you  know 
what  it  is  necessary  to  do  in  order  to  continue 
undisturbed  in  that  good  resolution?  It  is  nec- 
essary for  you  to  marry." 

"Ah!  for  me  to  marry?  Why  not?  But 
who  would  have  me?  I,  who  have  no  right  to  be 
particular,  I  should  wish  for  a  wife —  Ohl  no, 
there  is  no  one  left  who  pleases  me." 

Madame  de  Piennes  coloured  slightly,  and 
he  continued  without  noticing  it: 

"  A  woman  who  would  care  for  me — but 
don't  you  know,  madam,  that  that  would  be  al- 
most a  reason  why  I  should  not  care  for  her? " 

"Why  so?    How  foolish!" 

"  Does  not  Othello  say  somewhere, — it  is,  I 
believe,  to  justify  himself  for  the  suspicions 
which  he  has  against  Desdemona:  *  That  wom- 
an must  have  a  silly  head  and  depraved  tastes  to 
have  chosen  me,  me  who  am  black ! '  Should  I 
not  say  in  turn :  The  woman  who  would  care  for 
me  must  have  a  strange  head?  " 

*  You  have  been  bad  enough,  Max,  to  make 
it  needless  to  picture  yourself  to  be  worse  than 
you  are.  Do  not  speak  so  slightingly  of  your- 
self, for  there  are  people  who  might  take  you  at 
your  word.  For  myself,  I  am  sure,  if  some  day; 


148  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

— yes,  if  you  were  to  truly  love  a  woman  who 
would  have  all  of  your  esteem — then  you  would 
appear  to  her  worthy." 

Madame  de  Piennes  experienced  some  diffi- 
culty in  finishing  her  badly  turned  sentence,  and 
Max,  who  regarded  her  attentively  and  with 
extreme  curiosity,  did  not  aid  her  in  the  least. 

'  You  mean  to  say,"  he  finally  continued, 
"  that  if  I  were  really  in  love,  one  would  love 
me  in  return,  because  then  I  should  be  worth  the 
pains? " 

'  Yes,  then  you  would  be  worthy  to  be 
loved." 

"If  it  were  only  necessary  to  love  in  order 
to  be  loved.  That  is  not  altogether  true  what 
you  say,  madam —  Pshaw!  find  me  a  woman 
brave  enough,  and  I  will  marry.  If  she  is  not 
too  homely,  I  am  not  too  old  to  be  inflamed  still. 
— You  can  answer  for  me  for  the  rest." 

'  Where  do  you  come  from  now? "  inter- 
rupted Madame  de  Piennes  in  a  serious  tone. 

Max  talked  very  laconically  of  his  travels, 
but  nevertheless  in  a  way  to  indicate  that  he  had 
not  done  as  certain  tourists,  of  whom  the  Greeks 
say :  "  Empty  he  went  away,  empty  he  has 
returned."  His  short  observations  denoted  a 
sound  mind,  and  one  which  did  not  form  its 
opinions  at  second  hand,  although  he  was  in 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  149 

reality  more  cultured  than  he  cared  to  appear. 
He  withdrew  presently,  noticing  that  Madame 
de  Piennes  glanced  at  the  clock,  and  promised, 
not  without  some  embarrassment,  that  he  would 
go  to  Madame  Darsenay's  in  the  evening. 

He  did  not  come,  however,  and  Madame  de 
Piennes  was  a  little  vexed  about  it.  In  return, 
he  was  at  her  house  the  following  morning  to 
apologise,  excusing  himself  upon  the  plea  of 
fatigue  from  his  journey,  which  obliged  him  to 
remain  at  home;  but  he  lowered  his  eyes  and 
talked  with  such  a  hesitating  tone  that  it  was 
not  necessary  to  have  the  cleverness  of  Madame 
de  Piennes  in  reading  physiognomies  to  perceive 
that  he  was  not  telling  the  truth.  When  he  had 
concluded  she  menaced  him  with  her  finger,  with- 
out replying. 

"Do  you  not  believe  me?"  he  said. 

"  No !  Fortunately,  you  do  not  yet  know 
how  to  lie.  It  was  not  to  rest  yourself  from 
your  fatigue  that  you  did  not  go  to  Madame 
Darsenay's  yesterday.  You  did  not  stay  at 
home." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Max  with  a  forced 
smile,  "  you  are  right.  I  dined  at  the  Rocher- 
de-Cancale  with  its  rogues,  and  then  went  to 
Famin's  for  tea;  they  would  not  let  me  go,  and 
then  I  gambled." 


150  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

"  And  you  lost,  that  goes  without  saying." 

"  No,  I  won." 

"So  much  the  worse.  I  would  like  better  if 
you  had  lost,  especially  if  that  could  have 
disgusted  you  forever  with  a  habit  as  foolish  as 
it  is  detestable." 

She  bent  over  her  work,  and  pursued  her  task 
with  a  somewhat  affected  industry. 

;<  Were  there  many  people  at  Madame  Dar- 
senay's?  "  demanded  Max  timidly. 

"  No,  very  few." 

"No  marriageable  young  ladies?" 

"  No." 

"  I  am  depending  upon  you,  however, 
madam.  You  know  what  you  promised  me?  " 

'  We  have  time  enough  to  think  of  that." 

There  was  an  accent  of  coldness  and  con- 
straint in  the  voice  of  Madame  de  Piennes  which 
was  not  usual  with  her. 

After  a  silence,  Max  continued  with  an  air 
of  humility: 

'  You  are  displeased  with  me,  madam? 
Why  don't  you  give  me  a  good  scolding  as  my 
aunt  used  to  do,  only  to  forgive  me  afterward? 
Come,  do  you  wish  me  to  give  you  my  word 
never  to  gamble  again?  " 

"  When  one  makes  a  promise  it  is  necessary 
to  feel  that  he  has  the  strength  to  keep  it." 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  151 

"  A  promise  made  to  you,  madam,  I  should 
keep;  I  believe  that  I  have  the  strength  and  the 
courage." 

"  Well,  then,  Max,  I  accept  it,"  she  said, 
extending  her  hand  to  him. 

"  I  won  two  hundred  dollars,"  he  continued; 
"  do  you  wish  it  for  your  poor?  Never  would 
ill-gotten  gains  have  been  put  to  better  use." 

She  hesitated  a  moment. 

'Why   not?"    she  said   to   herself;   aloud: 

'  Well,  Max,  you  will  remember  the  lesson.     I 

enter  you  my  debtor  for  two  hundred  dollars." 

"  My  aunt  used  to  say  that  the  best  way  to 
keep  out  of  debt  is  always  to  pay  cash." 

As  he  spoke  he  drew  out  his  purse  to  get  the 
bills.  In  its  half -open  folds  Madame  de  Piennes 
thought  that  she  saw  a  picture  of  a  woman.  Max 
noticed  that  she  was  looking  at  it,  coloured,  and 
hastened  to  close  the  purse  and  present  her  the 
money. 

"  I  would  like  very  much  to  see  that  purse — 
if  that  were  possible,"  she  added  with  an  arch 
smile. 

Max  was  completely  disconcerted:  he  stam- 
mered a  few  unintelligible  words,  and  endeav- 
oured to  turn  the  attention  of  Madame  de 
Piennes. 

Her  first  thought  had  been  that  the  purse 


152  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

contained  the  portrait  of  some  Italian  beauty; 
but  the  evident  trouble  of  Max  and  the  general 
colour  of  the  miniature — that  was  all  that  she 
had  been  able  to  see  of  it — had  presently 
aroused  in  her  breast  another  suspicion.  She 
had  once  given  her  portrait  to  Madame  Aubree; 
and  she  imagined  that  Max,  in  his  quality  of 
direct  heir,  had  believed  that  he  had  the  right 
to  appropriate  it.  That  appeared  to  her  an 
enormous  impropriety.  However,  she  said  noth- 
ing about  it  immediately;  but  when  Mo  de  Sal- 
ligny  was  about  to  leave: 

"  By  the  way,"  she  said  to  him,  "  your  aunt 
had  a  portrait  of  me  which  I  would  like  very 
much  to  see." 

"  I  don't  know — what  portrait?  What  was 
it  like?  "  demanded  Max  in  an  irresolute  voice. 

This  time  Madame  de  Piennes  was  deter- 
mined not  to  notice  that  he  was  trying  to  deceive 
her. 

"  Look  for  it,"  she  said  in  the  most  natural 
tone  possible.  '  You  will  give  me  great  pleas- 
ure." 

Aside  from  the  incident  of  the  portrait  she 
was  well  enough  pleased  with  the  docility  of 
Max,  and  promised  herself  again  to  save  a  lost 
sheep. 

The  next  day,  Max  had  recovered  the  por- 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  153 

trait  and  brought  it  to  her  with  an  air  of 
indifference.  He  remarked  that  the  resemblance 
had  never  been  great,  and  that  the  painter  had 
given  her  a  stiffness  of  pose,  and  a  severity  of 
expression  which  were  not  at  all  natural.  From 
that  time  his  visits  to  Madame  de  Piennes  were 
shorter,  and  he  had  with  her  an  air  of  coolness 
that  she  had  never  seen  before.  She  attributed 
that  mood  to  the  first  efforts  which  he  was  mak- 
ing to  keep  his  promise  to  her,  and  to  resist  his 
evil  inclinations. 

A  fortnight  after  the  arrival  of  M.  de  Sal- 
ligny,  Madame  de  Piennes  went  as  usual  to  see 
her  protegee,  Arsene  Guillot,  whom  she  had  not 
forgotten  in  the  meantime,  nor  you  either, 
madam,  as  I  hope.  After  asking  her  several 
questions  concerning  her  health  and  the  instruc- 
tions she  was  receiving,  she  observed  that  the 
sick  girl  was  more  prostrated  than  she  had  been 
for  several  days,  and  offered  to  read  to  her,  to 
avoid  tiring  her  with  the  effort  of  talking.  The 
poor  girl  would  doubtless  have  preferred  to  talk, 
rather  than  listen  to  the  sort  of  reading  proposed 
to  her,  for  you  may  well  believe  that  it  was  from 
a  very  serious  book,  and  Arsene  had  never  read 
anything  but  the  lightest  novels.  It  was  a  re- 
ligious book  that  Madame  de  Piennes  selected; 
but  I  shall  not  name  it,  in  the  first  place  to  avoid 


154  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

wronging  its  author,  and  in  the  second  place  be- 
cause you  might  accuse  me  of  wishing  to  draw 
some  bad  inference  against  such  works  in  gen- 
eral. It  suffices  to  say  that  the  book  in  question 
was  written  by  a  young  man  of  nineteen,  and 
especially  dedicated  to  the  reconciliation  of 
hardened  sinners;  that  Arsene  was  extremely 
depressed,  and  that  she  had  not  been  able  to 
close  her  eyes  the  night  before.  At  the  third 
page,  there  happened  what  would  inevitably  have 
happened  with  any  other  book,  serious  or  not: 
I  mean  to  say  that  Mademoiselle  Guillot  closed 
her  eyes  and  fell  fast  asleep.  Madame  de 
Piennes  noticed  it,  and  congratulated  herself 
upon  the  calming  effect  which  she  had  produced. 
At  first  she  lowered  her  voice  to  avoid  awaken- 
ing the  patient  by  stopping  too  suddenly,  then 
she  laid  down  the  book  and  arose  quietly  to  with- 
draw upon  tiptoe;  but  the  nurse  usually  spent 
her  time  with  the  janitress  when  Madame  de 
Piennes  was  present,  for  her  visits  somewhat 
resembled  those  of  a  confessor.  Madame  de 
Piennes  wished  to  await  the  return  of  the  nurse ; 
and  as  she  was  of  all  people  the  worst  enemy  of 
idleness,  she  looked  about  for  something  to  em- 
ploy her  time  while  she  remained  with  the  sleeper. 
In  an  alcove  of  the  chamber  there  was  a  table 
supplied  with  writing  materials;  she  seated  her- 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  155 

self  at  it  and  began  to  write  a  note.  As  she  was 
searching  for  a  bit  of  sealing  wax  in  the  table 
drawer,  some  one  entered  the  chamber  precipi- 
tately, which  awakened  the  sick  girl. 

"  My  God!  What  do  I  see? "  cried  Arsene 
in  a  voice  so  altered  that  Madame  de  Piennes 
trembled. 

'Well,  this  is  a  pretty  thing  that  I  hear! 
What  does  it  all  mean?  To  throw  herself  out 
of  the  window  like  an  imbecile!  Did  anybody 
ever  see  any  one  so  foolish  as  this  girl! " 

I  know  not  if  I  use  the  exact  terms;  it  is  at 
least  the  sense  of  the  language  used  by  the  per- 
son who  had  come  into  the  room,  and  who  by  the 
voice,  Madame  de  Piennes  recognised  at  once 
to  be  Max  de  Salligny.  Several  exclamations 
followed,  a  few  suppressed  cries  from  Arsene, 
and  then  a  loud  kiss.  Presently  Max  resumed: 

"  Poor  Arsene,  in  what  condition  do  I  find 
you?  Do  you  know  that  I  would  never  have 
deserted  you,  if  Julie  had  told  me  your  last 
address?  But  did  any  one  ever  see  such  folly! " 

"  Oh!  Salligny!  Salligny!  how  happy  I  am! 
How  sorry  I  am  for  what  I  have  done!  You 
will  no  longer  find  me  pretty.  You  will  not  care 
for  me  any  more?  " 

"  How  silly  you  are,"  said  Max.  "  Why  did 
you  not  write  me  that  you  were  in  need  of 


156  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

money?  What  has  become  of  your  Russian? 
Has  he  left  you,  your  Cossack?  " 

When  she  recognised  the  voice  of  Max, 
Madame  de  Piennes  had  at  first  been  almost  as 
much  astonished  as  Arsene.  Her  surprise  had 
prevented  her  from  showing  herself  immedi- 
ately; then  she  had  begun  to  reflect  whether  to 
show  herself  or  not,  and  when  one  reflects  and 
listens  at  the  same  time,  one  does  not  decide 
quickly.  The  consequence  was  that  she  heard 
the  edifying  dialogue  which  I  have  just  re- 
ported; but  then  she  recognised  that  if  she  were 
to  remain  in  the  alcove  she  was  exposed  to  the 
necessity  of  hearing  more.  She  decided  upon 
her  course,  and  stepped  into  the  chamber  with 
the  calm  and  dignified  bearing  which  a  self-pos- 
sessed woman  rarely  loses,  and  which  she  com- 
mands at  need. 

"  Max,"  she  said,  "  you  are  injuring  that 
poor  girl;  leave  the  room.  Come  and  talk  with 
me  in  an  hour." 

Max  had  turned  as  pale  as  death  when 
Madame  de  Piennes  appeared  in  the  last  place 
in  the  world  where  he  would  have  expected  to 
meet  her;  his  first  impulse  was  to  obey,  and  he 
took  a  step  toward  the  door. 

'  You  are  going! — don't  go!  "  cried  Arsene, 
raising  herself  in  her  bed  with  an  effort  of 
despair. 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  157 

"  My  child,"  said  Madame  de  Piennes,  tak- 
ing her  hand,  "  be  reasonable;  listen  to  me.  Re- 
member what  you  have  promised  me!  " 

Then  she  cast  a  calm  but  imperious  look  to- 
ward Max,  who  went  out  immediately.  Arsene 
fell  back  upon  the  bed;  upon  seeing  him  depart 
she  had  fainted. 

Madame  de  Piennes  and  the  nurse,  who  came 
in  just  after,  revived  her  with  the  skill  which 
women  possess  in  such  emergencies.  By  degrees 
Arsene  regained  consciousness.  At  first  she  cast 
a  glance  around  the  room,  as  though  searching 
for  him  whom  she  remembered  to  have  seen  there 
but  a  few  moments  before;  then  she  turned  her 
great  black  eyes  toward  Madame  de  Piennes,  and 
regarding  her  fixedly: 

"  Is  he  your  husband?  "  she  said. 

"  No,"  replied  Madame  de  Piennes,  colour- 
ing slightly,  but  without  the  sweetness  of  her 
voice  being  altered ;  "  M.  de  Salligny  is  a  relative 
of  mine." 

She  thought  that  she  might  allow  herself  that 
little  untruth,  to  explain  the  influence  which  she 
had  over  him. 

'  Then,"  said  Arsene,  "  it  is  you  that  he 
loves!" 

And  she  fixed  her  eyes  steadily  upon  her, 
burning  like  two  flames  of  fire. 


158  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

"  He !  "  A  light  flashed  upon  the  brow  of 
Madame  de  Piennes.  For  a  moment  her  cheeks 
were  the  colour  of  scarlet,  and  her  voice  died 
upon  her  lips;  but  she  quickly  regained  her  se- 
renity. 

'  You  are  mistaken,  my  dear  child,"  she  said 
in  a  grave  tone.  "  M.  de  Salligny  understands 
that  he  did  wrong  to  awaken  memories  which  are 
happily  far  from  your  recollection.  You  have 
forgotten ' ' 

"  Forgotten,"  cried  Arsene,  with  a  smile  of 
the  damned,  which  was  pitiful  to  see. 

'  Yes,  Arsene,  you  have  renounced  all  of 
those  foolish  ideas  of  a  time  which  will  never 
return.  Think,  my  poor  child,  it  is  to  that  sinful 
intimacy  that  you  owe  all  of  your  misfortunes. 
Think " 

"  He  does  not  love  you!  "  interrupted  Arsene 
without  listening  to  her,  "  he  does  not  love  you, 
and  he  understands  a  mere  look!  I  saw  your 
eyes  and  his,  I  am  not  deceived.  In  fact — it  is 
just!  You  are  beautiful,  young,  brilliant.  I 
maimed,  disfigured — nigh  unto  death " 

She  could  not  finish.  Sobs  choked  her  voice, 
so  strong,  so  painful,  that  the  nurse  cried  that 
she  would  go  for  the  doctor;  for,  she  said,  the 
doctor  feared  nothing  so  much  as  these  convul- 
sions, and  if  that  were  to  continue  the  poor  dear 
would  die. 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  159 

Little  by  little,  the  species  of  energy  that 
Arsene  had  found  in  the  keenness  of  her  sorrow 
gave  place  to  a  stuporous  collapse,  which 
Madame  de  Piennes  mistook  for  calmness.  She 
continued  her  exhortations;  but  Arsene,  immov- 
able, did  not  listen  to  all  of  the  good  and  beau- 
tiful reasons  which  were  given  her  for  prefer- 
ring divine  love  rather  than  worldly;  her  eyes 
were  dry,  her  teeth  pressed  convulsively  together. 
While  her  protectress  talked  to  her  of  heaven 
and  the  hereafter,  she  dreamed  of  the  present. 
The  sudden  arrival  of  Max  had  instantly  awak- 
ened in  her  breast  foolish  illusions,  but  the  look 
of  Madame  de  Piennes  had  dissipated  them  still 
more  quickly.  After  the  happy  dream  of  a 
moment,  Arsene  awakened  to  the  sad  reality, 
grown  a  hundredfold  more  horrible  for  having 
been  momentarily  forgotten. 

Your  physician  will  tell  you,  madam,  that 
shipwrecked  sailors,  overcome  by  sleep  in  the 
midst  of  their  pangs  of  hunger,  dream  that  they 
are  feasting  at  a  bountiful  table.  They  awaken 
still  more  famished,  and  wish  that  they  had 
not  slept.  Arsene  suffered  a  torture  compar- 
able to  these  shipwrecked  mariners.  In  days  of 
old  she  had  loved  Max  in  such  manner  as  she  was 
capable  of  loving.  It  was  with  him  that  she 
would  always  have  preferred  going  to  the  thea- 


160  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

tre,  or  amusing  herself  at  a  picnic,  it  was  of  him 
that  she  talked  incessantly  to  her  friends.  When 
Max  left  she  had  cried  bitterly ;  but,  nevertheless, 
she  received  the  attentions  of  a  Russian  whom 
Max  was  delighted  to  have  for  a  successor,  be- 
cause he  took  him  for  a  gallant  man,  that  is  to 
say,  for  a  generous  one.  So  long  as  she  was  able 
to  lead  the  mad  life  of  women  of  her  class,  her 
love  for  Max  was  but  an  agreeable  memory 
which  sometimes  made  her  sigh.  She  thought 
of  him  as  one  thinks  of  the  amusements  of  his 
childhood,  without  however  wishing  to  return  to 
them;  but  when  Arsene  no  longer  had  lovers, 
when  she  found  herself  abandoned,  when  she  felt 
the  full  weight  of  her  misery  and  shame,  then 
her  love  for  Max  was  purified  in  a  measure,  be- 
cause it  was  the  sole  memory  which  awakened  in 
her  breast  neither  regrets  nor  remorse.  It  even 
raised  her  in  her  own  eyes,  and  the  more  she  felt 
herself  degraded,  the  more  she  exalted  Max  in 
her  imagination.  "  He  was  my  friend,  he  loved 
me,"  she  would  say  to  herself  with  a  sort  of  pride 
when  she  was  seized  with  disgust  in  reflecting 
upon  her  depraved  life.  In  prison  at  Minturnee, 
Marius  fortified  his  courage  by  saying  to  him- 
self: "  I  overcame  the  Cimbri!  "  This  pampered 
mistress — alas!  she  was  that  no  longer — had 
nothing  to  oppose  to  her  shame  and  despair  but 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  161 

this  thought :  "  Max  has  loved  me — he  loves 
me  still! "  A  moment  she  had  been  able  to  be- 
lieve it;  but  now  she  was  stripped  even  of  her 
memories,  the  sole  possession  which  remained  to 
her  in  the  world. 

While  Arsene  abandoned  herself  to  her  bitter 
reflections,  Madame  de  Piennes  demonstrated 
to  her  with  animation  the  necessity  of  renouncing 
for  ever  what  she  called  her  criminal  errors.  A 
strong  conviction  blunts  the  sensibilities;  and  as 
a  surgeon  applies  steel  and  cautery  to  a  wound, 
without  heeding  the  cries  of  the  patient,  so 
Madame  de  Piennes  pursued  her  task  with  piti- 
less firmness.  She  told  her  that  that  period  of 
happiness  in  which  poor  Arsene  took  refuge  in 
order  to  escape  from  herself,  was  a  period  of 
crime  and  shame  for  which  she  was  paying  the 
just  penalty.  These  illusions,  it  was  necessary 
to  detest,  and  to  banish  them  from  her  heart ;  the 
man  whom  she  looked  upon  as  her  protector,  and 
almost  a  tutelary  genius,  should  no  longer  be  to 
her  eyes  but  a  pernicious  accomplice,  a  seducer 
from  whom  she  should  flee  for  ever. 

That  word  "  seducer,"  of  which  Madame  de 
Piennes  was  not  able  to  feel  the  ridiculousness, 
almost  caused  Arsene  to  smile  in  the  midst  of 
her  tears;  but  her  worthy  protectress  failed  to 
observe  it.  She  continued  imperturbably  her 


162  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

exhortation,  and  ended  with  a  peroration  which 
redoubled  the  sobs  of  the  poor  girl:  "  You  will 
never  see  him  more." 

The  arrival  of  the  doctor  and  the  complete 
prostration  of  the  patient  reminded  Madame  de 
Piennes  that  she  had  already  said  enough.  She 
pressed  the  hand  of  Arsene,  and  said  to  her  in 
leaving : 

"  Be  brave,  my  child,  and  God  will  not  for- 
sake you." 

She  had  accomplished  a  duty ;  there  remained 
another  still  more  difficult.  Another  culprit 
awaited  her,  whose  mind  she  must  open  to  re- 
pentance; and  in  spite  of  the  confidence  which 
she  derived  from  her  religious  zeal,  in  spite  of 
the  influence  which  she  exercised  over  Max,  and 
of  which  she  already  had  the  proof,  finally,  in 
spite  of  the  good  opinion  which  she  conserved 
at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  for  that  libertine,  she 
experienced  a  strange  anxiety  in  thinking  of  the 
combat  in  which  she  was  about  to  engage. 

Before  entering  upon  that  terrible  struggle, 
she  wished  to  renew  her  strength,  and  entering 
the  church,  she  demanded  of  God  renewed  in- 
spiration for  defending  her  cause. 

When  she  reached  home  she  was  told  that 
M.  de  Salligny  was  in  the  drawing-room,  where 
he  had  been  waiting  for  her  for  a  long  time.  She 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  163 

found  him  pale,  agitated,  full  of  uneasiness. 
They  seated  themselves.  Max  dared  not  to  open 
his  mouth;  and  Madame  de  Piennes,  agitated 
herself,  without  knowing  positively  why,  re- 
mained silent  for  some  time,  and  only  furtively 
regarding  her  companion.  At  last  she  began : 

"  Max,"  she  said,  "  I  am  not  going  to  re- 
proach you ' 

He  raised  his  head  proudly  enough.  Their 
glances  met,  and  he  lowered  his  eyes  immediately. 

'  Your  good  heart,"  she  continued,  "  tells 
you  more  at  this  moment  than  I  should  be  able 
to  do.  It  is  a  lesson  which  Providence  has 
wished  to  give  you;  I  hope,  I  am  convinced — it 
will  not  be  lost." 

"  Madam,"  interrupted  Max,  "  I  scarcely 
know  what  has  happened.  That  unfortunate  girl 
threw  herself  out  of  the  window,  as  I  was  told; 
but  I  have  not  the  vanity,  I  should  say  the  sor- 
row— to  believe  that  the  former  relations  between 
us  have  been  the  means  of  determining  that  act 
of  madness." 

"Say  rather,  Max,  that  when  you  were  doing 
evil,  you  did  not  foresee  the  consequences.  When 
you  led  that  young  girl  astray,  you  did  not  think 
that  one  day  she  would  attempt  her  life." 

"  Madam,"  cried  Max  with  some  vehemence, 
"  permit  me  to  say  to  you  that  it  was  not  I  who 


164  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

first  led  Arsene  Guillot  astray.  When  I  met  her 
she  was  already  started  upon  her  career.  She 
was  my  mistress,  I  do  not  deny  it.  I  will  even 
acknowledge  that  I  loved  her — as  one  can  love 
a  person  of  that  class.  I  believe  that  she  had 
for  me  a  little  stronger  attachment  than  for  an- 
other. But  all  relations  between  us  came  to  an 
end  long  ago,  and  without  her  expressing  any 
great  regret.  The  last  time  that  I  had  any  news 
of  her  I  wished  to  give  her  some  money ;  but  she 
refused  it.  She  was  ashamed  to  demand  more 
of  me,  for  she  had  a  certain  amount  of  pride. 
Misery  forced  her  to  that  terrible  resolution.  I 
am  very  sorry  for  it.  But  I  repeat  to  you, 
madam,  that  in  all  that,  I  have  nothing  with 
which  to  reproach  myself." 

Madame  de  Piennes  crumpled  some  work 
upon  the  table,  then  she  resumed: 

"  Doubtless,  from  a  worldly  point  of  view 
you  are  guiltless,  you  have  incurred  no  responsi- 
bility, but  there  is  a  morality  other  than  that  of 
the  world,  and  it  is  by  its  rules  that  I  would  like 
to  see  you  guided.  At  this  time  you  are  not  in 
a  condition  to  listen  to  me,  perhaps.  Let  us 
leave  that.  To-day,  that  which  I  have  to  ask  of 
you  is  a  promise  which  you  will  not  refuse,  I  am 
sure.  That  unhappy  girl  is  moved  to  repent- 
ance. She  has  listened  with  attention  to  the 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  165 

counsels  of  a  venerable  priest  who  wished  to  see 
her.  We  have  every  reason  to  hope  for  her.  You 
must  not  see  her  again,  for  her  heart  is  still  hesi- 
tating between  good  and  evil,  and  unfortunately, 
you  have  neither  the  will,  nor  perhaps  the  power 
to  be  of  use  to  her.  By  seeing  her  you  would  do 
her  much  harm.  That  is  why  I  ask  you  to 
promise  that  you  will  not  go  to  see  her  again." 

Max  made  a  movement  of  surprise. 

'  You  will  not  refuse  me,  Max ;  if  your  aunt 
were  living  she  would  make  you  the  same  plea. 
Imagine  that  it  is  she  who  speaks  to  you." 

"  For  the  love  of  God,  madam,  what  is  this 
you  demand  of  me?  What  wrong  do  you  wish 
me  to  do  to  that  poor  girl?  Is  it  not,  on  the 
other  hand,  an  obligation  for  me,  who  have 
known  her  in  the  time  of  her  follies,  not  to 
abandon  her  now  that  she  is  ill,  and  very  dan- 
gerously ill,  if  what  I  am  told  is  true?  " 

"  That  is  doubtless  the  moral  of  the  world, 
but  it  is  not  my  own.  The  more  dangerous  her 
malady  the  more  important  it  is  that  you  should 
not  see  her  again." 

"  But,  madam,  consider  that  in  her  condition 
it  would  be  impossible,  even  to  a  prudery  the 
most  easily  alarmed.  Why,  madam,  if  I  had  a 
dog  that  was  ill,  and  I  knew  that  it  would  give 
him  a  certain  pleasure  to  see  me,  I  should  deem 


166  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

myself  guilty  of  an  unkindness  if  I  were  to  al- 
low him  to  die  alone.  It  is  not  possible  that  you 
think  otherwise,  you  who  are  so  kind  and  so 
good.  Think  of  it,  madam;  for  my  part,  I 
should  consider  it  downright  cruelty." 

"  Just  now  I  asked  you  to  make  me  that 
promise  in  the  name  of  your  good  aunt — in  be- 
half of  the  friendship  which  you  have  for  me. 
Now,  it  is  on  account  of  that  unhappy  girl  her- 
self that  I  ask  it.  If  you  really  love  her " 

"  Ah !  madam,  I  beg  of  you  do  not  compare 
thus,  things  incapable  of  comparison.  Believe 
me,  madam,  it  pains  me  exceedingly  to  refuse 
any  request  of  yours  whatsoever,  but  in  this  case, 
I  believe  that  honour  compels  me.  That  word 
displeases  you?  Forget  it.  Only,  madam,  in 
my  turn,  let  me  implore  you  for  pity  of  that  un- 
fortunate girl — and  also  a  little  for  pity  of  me. 
If  I  have  done  wrong — if  I  have  been  the  means 
of  contributing  to  her  ruin — I  should  now  take 
care  of  her.  It  would  be  terrible  to  abandon  her. 
I  should  never  forgive  myself.  No,  I  can  not 
abandon  her.  You  will  not  exact  that  of  me, 
madam." 

"  She  would  not  lack  for  care  from  others. 
But,  answer  me,  Max:  do  you  love  her? " 

"  Do  I  love  her!  Do  I  love  her!  No,  I  do 
not  love  her.  That  is  a  word  which  is  out  of 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  167 

place  here.  Love  her!  Alas!  no.  I  only  sought 
in  her  society  distraction  from  a  more  serious 
sentiment  which  it  was  necessary  to  combat. 
That  appears  to  you  ridiculous,  incomprehen- 
sible? The  purity  of  your  mind  would  not  admit 
that  one  could  seek  a  remedy  like  that.  Well, 
that  is  not  the  worst  deed  of  my  life.  If  the 
rest  of  us  had  not  sometimes  the  means  of  divert- 
ing our  passions — perhaps  now — perhaps  it 
would  be  I  who  had  thrown  myself  out  of  the 
window.  But  I  do  not  know  what  I  am  say- 
ing, and  you  must  not  listen  to  me.  I  scarcely 
comprehend  myself." 

"  I  asked  you  if  you  loved  her,"  resumed 
Madame  de  Piennes  with  lowered  eyes  and  some 
hesitation,  "  because  if  you  had  a — a  friendship 
for  her,  you  would  doubtless  have  courage  to  do 
her  a  little  evil  in  order  to  do  her  a  great  good 
afterward.  To  be  sure,  the  sorrow  of  not  seeing 
you  would  be  hard  for  her  to  bear;  but  it  would 
be  much  more  serious  now  to  turn  her  from  the 
path  into  which  she  has  been  almost  miraculously 
led.  It  is  important  for  her  salvation,  Max,  that 
she  should  entirely  forget  a  time  which  your 
presence  would  recall  too  vividly  to  her  mind." 

Max  shook  his  head  without  replying.  He 
was  not  a  believer,  and  the  word  "salvation," 
which  had  so  much  weight  with  Madame  de 


168  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

Piennes  did  not  appeal  so  strongly  to  his  mind. 
But  upon  that  point  it  was  not  necessary  to  dis- 
pute with  her.  He  always  carefully  avoided 
revealing  to  her  his  doubts,  and  this  time,  as 
usual,  he  kept  silent;  it  was  easy  to  see  however 
that  he  was  not  convinced. 

"  I  will  talk  to  you  in  the  language  of  the 
world,"  pursued  Madame  de  Piennes,  "since  un- 
fortunately it  is  the  only  one  which  you  can 
comprehend.  We  will  argue,  in  fact,  upon  a 
mathematical  calculation.  She  has  nothing  to 
gain  by  seeing  you,  but  much  to  lose.  Now, 
make  your  choice." 

"  Madam,"  said  Max  with  a  voice  of  emo- 
tion, "  you  no  longer  doubt,  I  hope,  that  there 
can  be  any  other  sentiment  on  my  part  in  regard 
to  Arsene  but  an  interest — quite  natural.  What 
danger  would  there  be?  None  whatever.  Do 
you  distrust  me?  Do  you  think  that  I  wish  to 
injure  the  good  counsels  which  you  give  her? 
No,  indeed!  I,  who  detest  sad  scenes,  who  avoid 
them  with  a  sort  of  abhorrence,  do  you  believe 
that  I  seek  the  sight  of  a  dying  girl  with  culpable 
intentions?  I  repeat  it,  madam,  it  is  for  me  a 
sense  of  duty,  an  expiation,  a  punishment  if 
you  will,  which  I  seek  concerning  her." 

At  those  words  Madame  de  Piennes  raised 
her  head  and  regarded  him  fixedly  with  an  air 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  169 

of  exaltation  which  gave  to  her  features  an  ex- 
pression of  sublimity. 

"  An  expiation,  you  say,  a  punishment?— 
Very  well,  yes!  Unknown  to  you,  Max,  you 
obey  perhaps  an  admonition  from  on  high,  and 
you  are  right  in  resisting  me.  Yes,  I  consent  to 
it.  See  that  girl,  and  may  she  become  the  means 
of  your  salvation,  as  you  have  nearly  been  that 
of  her  ruin." 

Probably  Max  did  not  comprehend  as  well 
as  you,  madam,  the  meaning  of  the  term,  ad- 
monition from  on  high.  This  sudden  change  of 
resolution  astonished  him;  he  knew  not  to  what 
to  attribute  it ;  he  knew  not  if  he  ought  to  thank 
Madame  de  Piennes  for  having  yielded  in  the 
end ;  but  for  the  moment  his  great  preoccupation 
was  to  divine  if  his  obstinacy  had  wearied,  or 
indeed  convinced,  the  person  whom  he  feared 
above  all  things  to  displease. 

"  Only,  Max,"  pursued  Madame  de  Piennes, 
"  I  have  to  demand  of  you,  or  rather  I  exact  of 
you- 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  Max  nodded  his 
head,  indicating  that  he  submitted  to  everything. 

"  I  exact,"  she  resumed,  "  that  you  only  see 
her  in  my  presence." 

He  gave  a  start  of  surprise,  but  he  hastened 
to  add  that  he  would  obey. 


170  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

"  I  do  not  trust  you  absolutely,"  she  con- 
tinued, with  a  smile.  "  I  still  fear  that  you  will 
spoil  my  work,  and  I  wish  so  much  to  succeed. 
Under  my  supervision,  on  the  other  hand,  you 
might  become  a  valuable  aid  and  then,  as  I  hope, 
your  obedience  would  be  rewarded." 

As  she  said  these  words  she  extended  her 
hand  to  him.  It  was  agreed  that  Max  should 
go  the  following  day  to  see  Arsene  Guillot,  and 
that  Madame  de  Piennes  should  precede  him  to 
prepare  her  for  the  visit. 

You  understand  her  design.  At  first  she  had 
thought  that  she  would  find  Max  fully  re- 
pentant, and  that  she  could  easily  draw  from  the 
example  of  Arsene  the  text  of  an  eloquent  ser- 
mon against  his  evil  passions;  but,  contrary  to 
her  expectations,  he  refused  to  accept  any  re- 
sponsibility. It  was  necessary  to  change  her 
exordium,  and,  at  a  decisive  moment  to  change  a 
studied  address  is  an  enterprise  almost  as  peril- 
ous as  to  change  the  order  of  battle  in  the  midst 
of  an  ambush.  Madame  de  Piennes  had  not  been 
able  to  improvise  a  manoeuvre.  Instead  of 
preaching  to  Max  she  had  discussed  with  him  a 
question  of  expediency.  Suddenly  a  new  idea 
presented  itself  to  her  mind.  The  remorse  for  his 
complicity  would  touch  him,  she  thought.  The 
Christian  death  of  a  woman  whom  he  had  loved 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  171 

(and  unfortunately  she  could  not  doubt  but  it 
was  near)  would  doubtless  carry  a  decisive  blow. 
It  was  with  such  a  hope  that  she  suddenly  deter- 
mined to  permit  Max  to  see  Arsene.  She  also 
gained  an  excuse  for  postponing  the  exhortation 
which  she  had  planned;  for  I  think  that  I  have 
already  said  to  you  that  in  spite  of  her  keen 
desire  to  save  a  man  whose  errors  she  deplored, 
she  shrank  involuntarily  from  the  thought  of 
engaging  with  him  in  so  serious  a  discussion. 

She  had  counted  much  upon  the  goodness  of 
her  cause ;  still  she  doubted  of  her  success,  and  to 
fail  was  to  despair  of  the  salvation  of  Max,  it 
was  to  condemn  herself  to  a  change  of  sentiment 
concerning  him.  The  devil,  perhaps,  to  prevent 
her  from  guarding  herself  against  the  warm 
affection  which  she  bore  for  a  friend  of  child- 
hood, the  devil  had  taken  pains  to  justify  that 
affection  upon  the  strength  of  a  Christian  hope. 
All  weapons  are  acceptable  to  the  Tempter,  and 
such  practices  are  familiar  to  him;  that  is  why 
the  Portuguese  say  quite  elegantly :  "  De  boas  in- 
ten9oes  esta  a  inferno  cheio  "  :  "  Hell  is  paved 
with  good  intentions."  You  say  in  French  that 
it  is  paved  with  women's  tongues,  and  that 
amounts  to  the  same  thing;  for  women,  in  my 
opinion,  always  mean  well. 

You  recall  me  to  my  story.    The  following 


172  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

day,  then,  Madame  de  Piennes  went  to  see  her 
protegee  whom  she  found  very  weak,  very  much 
depressed,  but  nevertheless  more  calm  and  re- 
signed than  she  had  expected.  She  talked  of 
M.  de  Salligny,  but  with  more  consideration  than 
the  day  before.  Arsene,  in  truth,  ought  ab- 
solutely to  give  him  up  and  no  longer  to  think 
of  him  but  to  deplore  their  mutual  blindness. 
She  ought  further,  and  it  was  a  part  of  her 
repentance,  she  ought  to  show  her  penitence  to 
Max  himself,  to  set  him  the  example  of  a  changed 
life,  and  to  secure  for  his  future  the  peace  of 
conscience  which  she  herself  enjoyed.  To  these 
Christian  exhortations  Madame  de  Piennes  did 
not  fail  to  add  certain  worldly  arguments,  such 
as,  for  example,  that  Arsene,  truly  loving  M. 
de  Salligny,  ought  to  wish  for  his  welfare  above 
all  things,  and  that  by  her  change  of  conduct 
she  would  merit  the  esteem  of  a  man  who  had 
not  really  as  yet  been  able  to  accord  it  to  her. 

Anything  severe  or  sorrowful  in  her  discourse 
was  suddenly  effaced  when  Madame  de  Piennes 
in  finishing  announced  to  her  that  she  would  see 
Max  again  and  that  he  would  soon  be  there.  At 
the  lively  colour  which  suddenly  suffused  her 
cheeks,  so  long  pale  from  suffering,  at  the  ex- 
traordinary brilliancy  of  her  eyes,  Madame  de 
Piennes  almost  repented  of  giving  her  consent 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  173 

to  that  interview;  but  it  was  too  late  to  change 
her  resolution.  She  employed  the  few  minutes 
remaining  to  her  before  the  arrival  of  Max  in 
pious  and  energetic  exhortations,  but  they  were 
listened  to  with  marked  inattention,  for  Arsene 
only  seemed  interested  in  arranging  her  hair  and 
smoothing  the  crumpled  ribbon  of  her  cap. 

At  last  M.  de  Salligny  appeared,  contracting 
all  of  his  features  to  give  them  an  air  of  cheer- 
fulness and  assurance.  He  asked  how  she  was 
feeling  in  a  tone  of  voice  which  he  strove  to 
make  natural,  but  which  no  cold  in  the  head 
would  have  been  able  to  give  him.  On  her  side, 
Arsene  was  no  more  at  her  ease;  she  stammered, 
she  was  unable  to  utter  a  single  sentence,  but 
she  took  the  hand  of  Madame  de  Piennes  and 
carried  it  to  her  lips  as  though  to  thank  her. 
What  was  said  during  the  next  quarter  of  an 
hour  was  what  is  said  everywhere  between  embar- 
rassed people.  Madame  de  Piennes  alone  main- 
tained her  accustomed  calm  demeanour,  or  rather, 
being  better  prepared  she  was  more  self -con- 
trolled. She  frequently  replied  for  Arsene,  who 
found  that  her  interpreter  expressed  her  thoughts 
rather  badly.  The  conversation  languishing, 
Madame  de  Piennes  remarked  that  the  invalid 
was  coughing  a  good  deal,  reminded  her  that 
the  doctor  had  forbidden  her  to  talk,  and  address- 


174  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

ing  herself  to  Max  she  told  him  that  he  would 
do  better  to  read  aloud  for  a  time,  rather  than  tire 
Arsene  with  his  questions.  Max  seized  a  book 
with  alacrity  and  seated  himself  near  the  window, 
for  the  light  in  the  room  was  a  little  dim.  He 
read  without  much  comprehension.  Doubtless 
Arsene  did  not  comprehend  any  more,  but  she 
had  the  air  of  listening  with  a  lively  interest. 
Madame  de  Piennes  worked  at  a  piece  of  em- 
broidery which  she  had  brought,  the  nurse 
pinched  herself  to  avoid  falling  asleep.  The 
eyes  of  Madame  de  Piennes  wandered  incessantly 
from  the  bed  to  the  window,  never  did  Argus 
keep  so  good  a  watch  with  his  hundred  eyes.  At 
the  end  of  a  few  minutes  she  leaned  toward 
the  ear  of  Arsene: 

"  How  well  he  reads!  "  she  whispered. 

Arsene  gave  her  a  look  which  contrasted 
strangely  with  the  smile  upon  her  lips: 

"  Oh!  yes,"  she  replied. 

Then  her  eyes  drooped,  and  a  great  tear 
would  appear  from  time  to  time  upon  her  lashes 
and  roll  down  her  cheeks  without  her  heeding  it. 
Max  did  not  once  turn  his  head.  After  he  had 
read  a  few  pages  Madame  de  Piennes  said  to 
Arsene. 

"  We  are  going  to  let  you  rest,  my  child.    I 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  175 

fear  that  we  may  have  tired  you  a  little.    We  will 
come  back  to  see  you  presently." 

She  arose  and  Max  arose  like  her  shadow. 
Arsene  bade  him  farewell  without  scarcely  re- 
garding him. 

"  I  am  pleased  with  you,  Max,"  said  Madame 
de  Piennes,  whom  he  had  accompanied  to  her 
door,  "  and  still  more  with  her.  That  poor  girl 
is  rilled  with  resignation.  She  sets  you  a  good 
example." 

'  To  suffer  and  be  silent,  madam,  is  it  very 
difficult  to  learn? " 

'  The  most  important  thing  to  learn  is  to 
school  one's  mind  against  evil  thoughts." 

Max  saluted  her  and  hurried  away. 

When  Madame  de  Piennes  went  to  see 
Arsene  the  following  day  she  found  her  con- 
templating a  bouquet  of  rare  flowers  which  had 
been  placed  upon  the  table  beside  her  bed. 

"  M.  de  Salligny  sent  them  to  me,"  she  said. 
"  He  sent  some  one  to  inquire  for  me,  but  he  has 
not  been  here." 

'  The  flowers  are  very  beautiful,"  said 
Madame  de  Piennes  a  little  drily. 

"  I  used  to  be  very  fond  of  flowers,"  said  the 
invalid,  sighing  as  she  said  it;  "and  he  spoiled 
me.  M.  de  Salligny  spoiled  me  by  giving  me  all 
the  most  beautiful  ones  that  he  could  find.  But 


176  ARSEXE  GUILLOT 

that  makes  no  difference  now.  These  are  too 
fragrant.  You  may  have  this  bouquet,  madam; 
he  will  not  care  if  I  give  it  to  you." 

"  No,  my  dear;  it  gives  you  pleasure  to  look 
at  the  flowers,"  said  Madame  de  Piennes,  in  a 
gentler  tone,  for  she  had  been  greatly  affected 
by  the  note  of  profound  sadness  in  the  voice  of 
poor  Arsene.  "  I  will  take  the  fragrant  ones, 
you  keep  the  camellias." 

"  Xo,  I  detest  camellias.  They  remind  me  of 
the  only  quarrel  that  we  ever  had — when  I  was 
with  him." 

'  Think  no  more  of  those  follies,  my  dear 
child." 

"  One  day,"  continued  Arsene,  looking  stead- 
ily at  Madame  de  Piennes,  "  one  day  I  found  a 
beautiful  red  camellia  in  a  glass  of  water  in  his 
room.  I  wished  to  take  it,  he  would  not  let  me, 
he  even  forbade  me  to  touch  it.  I  insisted,  I 
said  very  insulting  things  to  him.  He  took  it, 
locked  it  in  a  closet  and  put  the  key  in  his 
pocket.  I  acted  like  a  fiend  incarnate,  I  even 
smashed  a  porcelain  vase  of  which  he  was  very 
fond.  It  was  of  no  use.  I  saw  very  well  that 
he  had  received  it  from  some  woman  of  respect- 
ability. I  have  never  known  where  that  camellia 
came  from." 

As  she  spoke,  Arsene  regarded  Madame  de 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  177 

Piennes  with  a  fixed  and  almost  spiteful  look, 
which  caused  her  to  drop  her  eyes  involuntarily. 
There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  only  by  the  op- 
pressed breathing  of  the  invalid.  Madame  de 
Piennes  had  a  confused  recollection  of  an  inci- 
dent in  regard  to  a  camellia.  One  day,  when  she 
was  dining  with  Madame  Aubree,  Max  had  said 
to  her  that  his  aunt  had  been  congratulating  him 
upon  his  birthday,  and  asked  her  to  give  him  a 
bouquet  also.  She  had  laughingly  taken  a  camel- 
lia from  her  hair  and  given  it  to  him.  But  why 
had  such  an  insignificant  act  been  so  impressed 
upon  her  memory?  Madame  de  Piennes  was  un- 
able to  explain  it  to  herself.  She  was  almost 
alarmed  by  it.  Scarcely  had  she  recovered  from 
her  confusion  of  mind  in  regard  to  it  when  Max 
entered  and  she  felt  herself  growing  red  in  the 
face. 

"Thank  you  for  your  flowers,"  said  Arsene; 
"  but  they  sicken  me.  They  will  not  be  lost ;  I 
have  given  them  to  madam.  Do  not  make  me 
talk,  that  is  forbidden.  Will  you  read  me  some- 
thing? " 

Max  seated  himself  and  began  to  read.  This 
tkie  nobody  listened,  I  think.  Each  one,  includ- 
ing the  reader,  followed  the  thread  of  his  own 
thoughts. 

When  Madame  de  Piennes  arose  to  depart, 


178  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

she  was  leaving  the  houquet  upon  the  table,  but 
Arsene  reminded  her  of  her  forgetfulness.  She 
took  it  consequently,  annoyed  with  herself  for 
having  shown,  perhaps,  some  affectation  by  not 
accepting  that  trifle  in  the  first  place. 

;'  What  harm  could  there  be  in  that? "  she 
thought.  But  there  was  already  harm  since  it 
made  her  ask  herself  that  simple  question. 

Max  followed  her  home  unbidden.  They 
seated  themselves,  and,  averting  their  eyes  from 
each  other,  they  were  silent  long  enough  to  be 
embarrassed  by  it. 

'  That  poor  girl,"  said  Madame  de  Piennes 
at  last,  "  grieves  me  profoundly.  It  appears  as 
though  all  hope  were  at  an  end." 

"  Did  you  see  the  doctor? "  demanded  Max. 
"What  did  he  say?" 

Madame  de  Piennes  shook  her  head.  "  She 
has  but  a  few  more  days  to  live.  They  adminis- 
tered the  last  sacraments  to  her  this  morning." 

"  Her  face  haunts  one,"  said  Max,  advancing 
into  the  embrasure  of  a  window,  probably  to 
hide  his  emotion. 

"  No  doubt,  it  is  cruel  to  die  at  her  age,"  re- 
sumed Madame  de  Piennes  sadly;  "  but  had  she 
lived  longer,  who  knows  but  it  would  have  been 
a  misfortune  to  her?  In  saving  her  from  a 
violent  death  Providence  wished  to  give  her  time 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  179 

for  repentance.  It  is  a  great  mercy,  which  she 
herself  fully  appreciates  now.  The  Abbe  Du- 
bignon  is  much  pleased  with  her;  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  pity  her  so  much,  Max ! " 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  is  necessary  to  pity 
those  who  die  young,"  he  replied  a  little  gruffly. 
"  For  myself,  I  should  like  to  die  young;  what 
most  affects  me  is  to  see  her  suffer  so." 

"  Physical  suffering  is  often  of  benefit  to 
the  soul." 

Max,  without  replying,  went  and  placed  him- 
self at  the  other  end  of  the  room  in  an  obscure 
corner,  partially  hidden  by  thick  curtains. 
Madame  de  Piennes  worked,  or  pretended  to 
work,  upon  a  piece  of  tapestry  which  she  had  in 
her  hands;  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  felt  the 
regard  of  Max  like  a  heavy  weight  upon  her. 
That  regard  which  she  shunned,  she  imagined 
she  felt  wandering  over  her  hands,  her  shoulders, 
and  across  her  brow.  It  seemed  to  her  to  rest 
upon  her  foot,  and  she  hastened  to  hide  it  be- 
neath her  robe.  There  is  perhaps  some  truth  in 
that  which  is  called  magnetic  fluid,  madam. 

"  Do  you  know  Admiral  de  Rigny? "  Max 
suddenly  demanded. 

"  Yes,  slightly." 

"  I  shall  perhaps  have  a  favour  to  ask  of  you 
concerning  him — a  letter  of  recommendation." 


180  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

"For  what?" 

"  For  several  days  I  have  been  making 
plans,"  he  continued  with  affected  cheerfulness. 
"  I  am  trying  to  be  converted,  and  I  would  like 
to  do  some  pious  act,  but  am  embarrassed  how  to 
begin  it." 

Madame  de  Piennes  glanced  at  him  a  little 
severely. 

"  This  is  my  position,"  he  continued.  "  I  am 
very  sorry  that  I  am  not  versed  in  military  prac- 
tice, but  that  can  be  learned — and,  even  as  I  have 
the  honour  of  telling  you,  I  have  an  extraor- 
dinary desire  to  go  to  Greece  and  there  strive 
to  kill  a  few  Turks  for  the  highest  glory  of  the 
Cross." 

'To  Greece!"  cried  Madame  de  Piennes, 
dropping  her  ball. 

'  To  Greece.  Here,  I  am  doing  nothing; 
I  am  weary  of  everything;  I  am  good  for 
nothing,  I  can  do  nothing  of  any  use;  there  is 
nobody  in  the  world  to  whom  I  am  of  any  ac- 
count. Why  should  I  not  go  to  reap  laurels 
or  sacrifice  my  life  for  a  good  cause?  Moreover, 
I  scarcely  see  any  other  means  of  winning  glory 
and  having  my  name  inscribed  in  the  Temple  of 
Fame,  as  I  so  much  desire.  Picture  to  yourself, 
madam,  what  an  honour  for  me  when  you  read 
in  the  paper :  '  Word  is  received  from  Tripoli 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  181 

that  M.  Max  de  Salligny,  a  young  Philhellene 
of  the  greatest  promise ' — one  can  well  say  that 
in  a  paper — '  of  the  greatest  promise,  has  just 
perished,  a  victim  to  his  enthusiasm  for  the 
sacred  cause  of  religion  and  liberty.  The  fero- 
cious Kourschid  Pacha  has  carried  his  forgetful- 
ness  of  the  proprieties  to  the  extent  of  having 
him  beheaded/  That  is  really  the  worst  part  of 
me  in  everybody's  opinion,  is  it  not,  madam?  " 

And  he  broke  into  a  forced  laugh. 

"  Are  you  talking  seriously,  Max?  You 
would  go  to  Greece?  " 

'  Very  seriously,  madam,  only  I  shall  strive 
to  have  my  obituary  notice  appear  at  the  latest 
possible  date." 

'What  would  you  do  in  Greece?  The 
Greeks  are  not  lacking  for  soldiers.  You  would 
make  an  excellent  soldier,  I  am  sure ;  but— 

"  A  superb  grenadier  of  five  feet  six ! "  he 
exclaimed,  raising  himself  upon  his  feet ;  "  the 
Greeks  would  be  very  hard  to  please  if  they  did 
not  wish  for  a  recruit  like  this.  Joking  aside, 
madam,"  he  added,  dropping  into  an  armchair, 
"  it  is,  I  believe,  the  best  thing  for  me  to  do.  I 
can  not  stay  in  Paris  "  —he  pronounced  these 
words  with  a  certain  degree  of  violence — "  here  I 
am  unhappy,  here  I  should  do  a  hundred  foolish 
things — I  have  not  the  strength  to  resist —  But 


182  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

we  will  talk  of  this  again;  I  do  not  leave  imme- 
diately— but  I  shall  go.  Oh!  yes,  it  is  neces- 
sary; I  have  taken  my  oath  upon  it.  Do  you 
know  that  for  two  days  I  have  been  studying 
Greek?  'Zorjf/Aov  0-0,9  ayo/Trw.'  It  is  a  beauti- 
ful language,  is  it  not?  " 

Madame  de  Piennes  had  read  Lord  Byron 
and  remembered  that  Greek  phrase,  the  refrain 
of  one  of  his  fugitive  poems.  The  translation, 
as  you  know,  is  found  in  a  foot-note;  it  is:  "  My 
life,  I  love  you."  It  is  a  fashion  of  speech  pecul- 
iar to  that  country.  Madame  de  Piennes  cursed 
her  too  good  memory ;  she  was  careful  not  to  ask 
the  meaning  of  that  Greek  phrase,  and  only 
feared  that  her  countenance  might  betray  the 
fact  that  she  had  understood. 

Max  had  wandered  to  the  piano,  and  his  fin- 
gers falling  upon  the  keys  as  by  accident,  per- 
formed a  few  melancholy  chords.  Suddenly,  he 
took  his  hat ;  and  turning  to  Madame  de  Piennes 
asked  if  she  were  going  to  Madame  Darsenay's 
that  evening. 

"  I  think  so,"  she  replied,  with  some  hesi- 
tation. 

He  pressed  her  hand  and  immediately  took 
his  departure,  leaving  her  a  prey  to  an  agitation 
that  she  had  never  before  experienced. 

All  of  her  ideas  were  so  confused,  and  fol- 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  183 

lowed  each  other  with  so  much  rapidity  that  she 
was  unable  to  fix  upon  any  one  of  them.  It  was 
like  the  series  of  impressions  which  appear  and 
disappear  as  suddenly  when  one  views  the  land- 
scape from  a  car  window.  But,  as,  in  the  midst 
of  the  most  fleeting  panorama  the  eye  which  does 
not  perceive  all  the  details  nevertheless  gets  a 
general  impression  of  the  whole,  so,  in  the  midst 
of  the  chaotic  thoughts  which  besieged  her, 
Madame  de  Piennes  experienced  a  sensation  of 
terror  and  felt  as  though  she  were  being  borne 
upon  a  steep  plane  to  the  brink  of  a  frightful 
precipice.  That  Max  was  in  love  with  her  she 
had  no  doubt.  That  love  (she  called  it:  "that 
affection")  was  of  long  standing;  but  hitherto 
she  had  not  been  alarmed  by  it.  Between  a 
devout  person  like  herself  and  a  libertine  like 
Max  there  was  an  insurmountable  barrier  which 
had  reassured  her  until  now.  Although  she  was 
not  insensible  to  the  pleasure  or  the  vanity  of 
inspiring  a  serious  sentiment  in  a  man  as  frivo- 
lous as  was  Max  in  her  estimation,  she  had  never 
thought  that  that  affection  could  some  day  be- 
come dangerous  to  her  peace  of  mind.  Now 
that  the  scapegrace  had  mended  his  ways  she 
began  to  fear  him.  His  conversion,  which  she 
attributed  to  herself,  might  become  for  her  and 
for  him  a  cause  of  sorrow  and  torture.  At  times 


184  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

she  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  the  dangers 
which  she  vaguely  foresaw  had  no  real  founda- 
tion. That  journey,  suddenly  resolved  upon, 
the  change  which  she  had  remarked  in  the  con- 
duct of  M.  de  Salligny  might  strictly  be  ex- 
plained by  the  love  which  he  still  bore  for  Arsene 
Guillot ;  but,  strange  to  say !  that  thought  was  to 
her  more  insupportable  than  the  others,  and  it  was 
almost  a  relief  to  her  to  demonstrate  to  her  own 
mind  its  improbability. 

Madame  de  Piennes  spent  the  entire  evening 
in  creating  phantoms,  destroying  them  and  re- 
creating them  again.  She  did  not  wish  to  go  to 
Madame  Darsenay's,  and,  in  order  to  be  more 
sure  of  herself  she  allowed  her  coachman  to  go 
out,  and  resolved  to  retire  at  an  early  hour;  but 
as  soon  as  she  had  taken  that  high-minded  resolu- 
tion, and  there  was  no  longer  a  means  of  retract- 
ting  it,  she  represented  to  herself  that  it  was  a 
weakness  unworthy  of  her,  and  repented  of  it. 
She  feared  above  all  things,  that  Max  would 
suspect  the  cause;  and  as  she  could  not  disguise 
from  herself  the  real  motive  for  staying  at  home, 
she  already  looked  upon  herself  as  guilty,  for 
that  sole  preoccupation  concerning  M.  de  Sal- 
ligny appeared  to  her  a  crime.  She  prayed  for  a 
long  time,  but  without  being  comforted  by  it .  I 
know  not  at  what  hour  she  succeeded  in  falling 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  185 

asleep;  what  is  certain  is  that  when  she  awak- 
ened, her  ideas  were  as  confused  as  the  evening 
before,  and  she  was  as  far  as  ever  from  forming 
a  resolution. 

As  she  was  at  breakfast — for  one  always 
breakfasts,  madam,  especially  when  one  has 
dined  poorly — she  read  in  the  paper  that — I  know 
not  what — Pacha  had  sacked  a  city  in  Roumelia. 
Women  and  children  had  been  massacred;  many 
Philhellenes  had  perished  arms  in  hand,  or  had 
been  slowly  put  to  death  by  horrible  tortures. 
That  newspaper  article  was  little  calculated  to 
give  Madame  de  Piennes  a  taste  for  the  journey 
to  Greece  for  which  Max  was  preparing  himself. 
She  was  meditating  sadly  over  what  she  was 
reading,  when  a  servant  handed  her  a  note  from 
him.  The  evening  before  he  had  been  greatly 
bored  at  Madame  Darsenay's;  and,  disquieted 
not  to  have  found  Madame  de  Piennes  there,  he 
wrote  her  for  news  of  herself,  and  to  ask  at  what 
hour  she  was  going  to  see  Arsene  Guillot. 
Madame  de  Piennes  had  not  the  courage  to 
write,  and  sent  word  that  she  would  go  at  the 
accustomed  hour.  Then  the  idea  came  to  her 
to  go  at  once,  in  order  to  avoid  meeting  Max; 
but,  upon  reflection,  she  decided  that  that  was 
a  childish  and  shameful  falsehood,  worse  than 
her  weakness  of  yesterday.  She  therefore  forti- 


186  AKSENE  GUILLOT 

fied  her  courage,  said  a  fervent  prayer,  and, 
when  it  was  time,  she  went  out  and  walked  with 
a  firm  step  to  the  chamber  of  Arsene. 


Ill 


SHE  found  the  poor  girl  in  a  pitiful  condi- 
tion. It  was  apparent  that  her  last  hour  was 
near,  and  since  the  day  before  the  disease  had 
made  horrible  progress.  Her  breathing  was  no 
more  than  a  painful  death-rattle,  and  they  told 
Madame  de  Piennes  that  she  had  been  delirious 
several  times  during  the  morning,  and  that  the 
doctor  did  not  think  that  she  could  live  until  the 
morrow. 

Arsene,  however,  recognised  her  protectress 
and  thanked  her  for  coming  to  see  her. 

'  You  will  no  longer  fatigue  yourself  by 
mounting  my  staircase,"  she  said  to  her  in  a  voice 
almost  inaudible. 

Each  word  seemed  to  cost  her  a  painful  effort 
and  weaken  the  little  strength  remaining  to  her. 
It  was  necessary  to  lean  over  her  bed  in  order 
to  hear  her.  Madame  de  Piennes  had  taken  her 
hand,  and  it  was  already  cold  and  lifeless. 

Max    arrived    presently    and    silently    ap- 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  187 

preached  the  bed  of  the  dying  girl.  She  made 
him  a  slight  sign  with  her  head,  and  observing 
that  he  had  a  book  in  his  hand: 

'  You  will  not  read  to-day,"  she  murmured 
feebly. 

Madame  de  Piennes  glanced  at  the  book, 
so-called;  it  was  a  bound  chart  of  Greece,  which 
he  had  purchased  in  passing. 

The  Abbe  Dubignon,  who  had  been  with 
Arsene  throughout  the  morning,  observing  how 
rapidly  her  strength  was  failing,  wished  to  turn 
to  profit  for  her  salvation,  the  few  minutes  that 
still  remained  to  him.  He  waved  aside  Max  and 
Madame  de  Piennes,  and  bending  over  the  bed 
of  suffering,  he  addressed  to  the  poor  girl  the 
solemn  and  consoling  words  which  religion  re- 
serves for  such  moments.  In  a  corner  of  the 
chamber  Madame  de  Piennes  was  kneeling  in 
prayer,  and  Max,  standing  by  the  window 
seemed  transformed  to  a  statue. 

'  You  forgive  all  those  who  have  injured 
you,  my  daughter,"  said  the  preacher,  in  a  voice 
choked  with  emotion. 

'  Yes  I  May  they  be  happy ! "  replied  the 
dying  girl,  with  an  effort  to  make  herself  heard. 

"  Put  your  trust  in  God's  mercy,  my  daugh- 
ter!" continued  the  abbe.  "Repentance  opens 
the  gates  of  heaven." 


188  ARSENE  GUILLOT 

For  some  minutes  longer  the  abbe  continued 
his  exhortations;  then  he  ceased  to  speak,  un- 
certain whether  he  had  anything  but  a  corpse 
before  him.  Madame  de  Piennes  arose  softly, 
and  every  one  remained  for  a  time  immovable, 
anxiously  regarding  the  livid  face  of  Arsene. 
Her  eyes  were  closed.  Each  one  held  his  breath, 
lest  he  should  disturb  the  terrible  sleep  which  had 
perhaps  already  begun  for  her,  and  there  could 
be  distinctly  heard  in  the  chamber  the  ticking  of 
a  watch  which  lay  upon  the  table. 

"  She  is  gone,  the  poor  girl! "  the  nurse  said 
at  last,  after  holding  her  snuff-box  to  the  lips 
of  Arsene;  "  see,  the  glass  is  not  tarnished.  She 
is  dead!" 

"Poor  child!"  exclaimed  Max,  arousing 
from  the  stupor  in  which  he  seemed  to  be  lost. 
'''  What  happiness  has  she  had  in  this  world?  " 

Suddenly,  and  as  though  reanimated  by  his 
voice,  Arsene  opened  her  eyes. 

"  I  have  loved,"  she  murmured  in  a  hollow 
voice. 

She  moved  her  fingers  and  appeared  to  wish 
to  stretch  out  her  hands.  Max  and  Madame  de 
Piennes  had  approached  and  each  took  one  of 
them. 

"  I  have  loved,"  she  repeated  with  a  sad 
smile. 


ARSENE  GUILLOT  189 

Those  were  her  last  words.  Max  and 
Madame  de  Piennes  held  her  cold  hands  for  a 
long  time  without  daring  to  raise  their  eyes. 


IV 


WELL,  madam,  you  tell  me  that  my  story  is 
finished,  and  you  do  not  wish  to  hear  more.  I 
would  have  believed  that  you  would  be  curious 
to  know  whether  M.  de  Salligny  made  the  voy- 
age to  Greece  or  not ;  if — but  it  is  late,  you  have 
had  enough.  Very  well!  At  least  refrain  from 
rash  judgments,  I  protest  that  I  have  said  noth- 
ing to  authorise  you  to  indulge  in  them. 

Above  all,  do  not  doubt  that  my  story  is  true. 
You  do  doubt  it?  Go  to  Pere-Lachaise :  twenty 
paces  to  the  left  of  the  tomb  of  General  Foy, 
you  will  find  a  simple  stone,  surrounded  with 
flowers  always  well  kept.  Upon  the  stone  you 
can  read  the  name  of  my  heroine  graven  in  large 
characters:  ARSENE  GUILLOT,  and,  by 
bending  over  that  tomb,  you  will  discover,  if  the 
rain  has  not  already  effaced  it,  a  line  traced  with 
a  pencil,  in  very  fine  writing:  "Poor  Arsene! 
she  prays  for  us." 


THE    ABBE    AUBAItf 


IT  were  idle  to  say  how  the  following  letters 
came  into  our  possession.  They  seem  to  us  curi- 
ous, moral  and  instructive.  We  publish  them 
without  any  change  other  than  the  suppression 
of  certain  proper  names,  and  a  few  passages 
which  have  no  connection  with  the  incident  in 
the  life  of  the  Abbe  Aubain. 


THE  ABBE  AUBAI1ST 

From  Madame  de  P to  Madame  de  G 

NOIRMOUTIERS,     .     .     .     November,  1844. 

I  PROMISED  to  write  to  you,  my  dear 
Sophie,  and  I  keep  my  word;  besides, 
I  have  nothing  better  to  do  these  long 
evenings. 

My  last  letter  informed  you  that  I  had  made 
the  simultaneous  discovery  that  I  was  thirty  and 
ruined.  For  the  first  of  these  misfortunes,  alas! 
there  is  no  remedy;  as  for  the  second,  we  have 
resigned  ourselves  to  it  badly  enough,  but,  after 
all,  we  are  resigned.  We  must  pass  at  least  two 
years,  to  repair  our  fortune,  in  the  dreary  manor- 
house,  from  whence  I  write  this  to  you.  I  have 
been  simply  heroic.  Directly  I  knew  of  the  state 
of  our  finances  I  proposed  to  Henry  that  he 
should  economise  in  the  country,  and  eight  days 
later  we  were  at  Noirmoutiers. 

I  will  not  tell  you  anything  of  the  journey. 
It  was  many  years  since  I  had  found  myself 
alone  with  my  husband  for  such  a  length  of 
time.  Of  course,  we  were  both  in  a  bad  temper; 

193 


194  THE  ABBE  AUBAIN 

but,  as  I  was  thoroughly  determined  to  put  on 
a  good  face,  all  went  off  well. 

You  were  acquainted  with  my  good  resolu- 
tions, and  you  shall  see  if  I  am  keeping  to  them. 
Behold  us,  then,  installed.  By  the  way,  Noir- 
moutiers,  from  a  picturesque  point  of  view, 
leaves  nothing  to  be  desired.  There  are  woods, 
and  cliffs,  and  the  sea  within  a  quarter  of  a 
league.  We  have  four  great  towers,  the  walls 
of  which  are  fifteen  feet  thick.  I  have  fitted  a 
workroom  in  the  recess  of  the  window.  My 
drawing-room,  which  is  sixty  feet  long,  is  dec- 
orated with  figured  tapestry;  it  is  truly  magnifi- 
cent when  lighted  up  by  eight  candles:  quite 
a  Sunday  illumination.  I  die  of  fright  every 
time  I  pass  it  after  sunset.  We  are  very  badly 
furnished,  as  you  may  well  believe.  The  doors 
do  not  fit  closely,  the  wainscoting  cracks,  the 
wind  whistles,  and  the  sea  roars  in  the  most 
lugubrious  fashion  imaginable.  Nevertheless  I 
am  beginning  to  grow  accustomed  to  it. 

I  arrange  and  mend  things,  and  I  plant;  be- 
fore the  hard  frosts  set  in  I  shall  have  made  a 
tolerable  habitation.  You  may  be  certain  that 
your  tower  will  be  ready  by  the  spring.  If  I 
could  but  have  you  here  now!  The  advantage 
of  Noirmoutiers  is  that  we  have  no  neighbours: 
we  are  completely  isolated.  I  am  thankful  to 


THE  ABBE  AUBAIN  195 

say  I  have  no  other  callers  but  my  priest,  the 
Abbe  Aubain.  He  is  a  well-mannered  young 
man,  although  he  has  arched  and  bushy  eyebrows 
and  great  dark  eyes  like  those  of  a  stage  villain. 
Last  Sunday  he  did  not  give  us  so  bad  a  sermon 
for  the  country.  It  sounded  very  appropriate. 
"  Misfortune  was  a  benefit  from  Providence  to 
purify  our  souls."  Be  it  so.  At  that  rate  we 
ought  to  give  thanks  to  that  honest  stockbroker 
who  desired  to  purify  our  souls  by  running  off 
with  our  money. 

Good-bye,  dear  friend. 

My  piano  has  just  come,  and  some  big  pack- 
ing-cases. I  must  go  and  unpack  them  all. 

P.S. — I  reopen  this  letter  to  thank  you  for 
your  present.  It  is  most  beautiful,  far  too 
beautiful  for  Noirmoutiers.  The  grey  hood  is 
charming.  I  recognise  your  taste  there.  I  shall 
put  it  on  for  Mass  on  Sunday;  perhaps  a  com- 
mercial traveller  will  be  there  to  admire  it.  But 
for  whom  do  you  take  me,  with  your  novels?  I 
wish  to  be,  I  am,  a  serious-minded  person.  Have 
I  not  sufficiently  good  reasons?  I  am  going  to 
educate  myself.  On  my  return  to  Paris,  in  three 
years  from  now  (good  heavens!  I  shall  be  thirty- 
three)  ,  I  mean  to  be  a  Philaminte.  But  really, 
I  do  not  know  what  books  to  ask  vou  to  send 

* 

me.    What  do  you  advise  me  to  learn?    German 


196  THE  ABBE  AUBAIN 

or  Latin?  It  would  be  very  nice  to  read  Wilhelm 
tyLeister  in  the  orginal,  or  the  tales  of  Hoffmann. 
Noirmoutiers  is  the  right  place  for  whimsical 
stories.  But  how  am  I  to  learn  German  at  Noir- 
moutiers?  Latin  would  suit  me  well,  for  I  think 
it  so  unfair  that  men  should  keep  it  all  to  them- 
selves. I  should  like  to  have  lessons  given  me 
by  my  priest. 

LETTER  II 

The  same  to  the  same. 
NOIRMOUTIERS,     .     .     .     December,  1844. 

You  may  well  be  astonished.  The  time  passes 
more  quickly  than  you  would  believe,  more  quick- 
ly than  I  should  have  believed  myself.  The 
weakness  of  my  lord  and  master  supports  my 
courage  through  everything.  Really,  men  are 
.very  inferior  to  us.  He  is  depressed  beyond 
measure.  He  gets  up  as  late  as  he  can,  rides  his 
horse  or  goes  hunting,  or  else  pays  calls  on  the 
dullest  people  imaginable — lawyers  and  magis- 
trates who  live  in  town,  that  is  to  say,  six  leagues 
from  here.  He  goes  to  see  them  when  it  is  wet! 
He  began  to  read  Mauprat  eight  days  ago,  and 
she  is  still  in  the  first  volume.  "  It  is  much  better 
.to  be  pleased  with  oneself  than  to  slander  one's 


THE  ABBE  AUBAIN  197 

neighbours."    This  is  one  of  your  proverbs.    But 
I  will  leave  him  in  order  to  talk  of  myself. 

The  country  air  does  me  incalculable  good. 
I  am  magnificently  well,  and  when  I  see  myself 
in  the  glass  (such  a  glass!)  I  do  not  look  thirty; 
but  then  I  walk  a  good  deal.  Yesterday  I  man- 
aged to  get  Henry  to  come  with  me  to  the  sea- 
shore. While  he  shot  gulls  I  read  the  pirate's 
song  in  the  Giaour.  On  the  beach,  facing  a 
rough  sea,  the  fine  verses  seemed  finer  than  ever. 
Our  sea  can  not  rival  that  of  Greece,  but  it  has 
its  poetry,  as  the  sea  everywhere  has.  Do  you 
know  what  strikes  me  in  Lord  Byron? — his  in- 
sight and  understanding  of  nature.  He  does 
not  talk  of  the  sea  from  only  having  eaten  turbot 
and  oysters.  He  has  sailed  on  it;  he  has  seen 
storms.  All  his  descriptions  are  from  life.  Our 
poets  put  rhyme  first,  then  common  sense — if 
there  is  any  in  verse.  While  I  walk  up  and  down, 
reading,  watching  and  admiring,  the  Abbe  Au- 
bain — I  do  not  know  whether  I  have  mentioned 
my  Abbe  to  you;  he  is  the  village  priest — came 
up  and  joined  me.  He  is  a  young  priest  who 
often  comes  to  me.  He  is  well  educated,  and 
knows  "  how  to  talk  with  well-bred  people."  Be- 
sides, from  his  large  dark  eyes  and  pale,  melan- 
choly look,  I  can  very  well  see  that  he  has  an 
interesting  story,  and  I  try  to  make  it  up  for 


198  THE  ABBE  AUBAIN 

myself.  We  talked  of  the  sea,  of  poetry;  and, 
what  will  surprise  you  much  in  a  priest  of  Noir- 
moutiers,  he  talked  well.  Then  he  took  me  to 
the  ruins  of  an  old  abbey  upon  a  cliff  and  pointed 
out  to  me  a  great  gateway  carved  with  delightful 
goblins.  Oh!  if  only  I  had  the  money  to  restore 
it  all!  After  this,  in  spite  of  Henry's  remon- 
strances, who  wanted  his  dinner,  I  insisted  upon 
going  to  the  priest's  house  to  see  a  curious  relic 
which  the  cure  had  found  in  a  peasant's  house. 
It  was  indeed  very  beautiful:  a  small  box  of 
Limoges  enamel  which  would  make  a  lovely 
jewel-case.  But,  good  gracious!  what  a  dwell- 
ing! And  we,  who  believe  ourselves  poor! 
Imagine  a  tiny  room  on  the  ground  floor,  badly 
paved,  whitewashed,  furnished  with  a  table  and 
four  chairs,  and  an  armchair  padded  with  straw, 
with  a  little  flat  cake  of  a  cushion  in  it,  stuffed, 
I  should  think,  with  peachstones,  and  covered 
with  small  pieces  of  white  and  red  cotton.  On 
the  table  were  three  or  four  large  Greek  and 
Latin  folios.  These  were  the  Fathers  of  the 
Church,  and  below,  as  though  hidden,  I  came 
upon  Jocelin.  He  blushed.  He  was  very  at- 
tentive, however,  in  doing  the  honours  of  his 
wretched  lodgings  without  pride  or  false  mod- 
esty. I  suspected  he  had  had  a  romantic  story. 
I  soon  had  a  proof  of  it.  In  the  Byzantine 


Then  he   took  the  bouquet  and  slipped  it  care- 
fully in  his  table,  drawer. 

.//(  etching  from  a  drairiiig  by  G.  Fraipont. 


198  THE  ABBE  AUBAIN 

myself,  We  talked  of  the  sea,  of  poetry;  and, 
what  will  surprise  you  much  in  a  priest  of  Noir- 
laoutw  *  s,  he  talked  well.  Then  he  took  me  to 
t&e  nuins  of  an  old  abbey  upon  a  cliff  and  pointed 
*>ut  to  ine  a  great  gateway  carved  with  delightful 
goblins.  Oh!  if  only  I  had  the  money  to  restore 
it  all!  After  this,  in  spite  of  Henry's  remon- 
strances, who  wanted  his  dinner,  I  insisted  upon 
going  to  the  priest's  house  to  see  a  curious  relic 
which  the  cure  had  found  in  a  peasant's  house. 
It  was  indeed  very  beautiful:  a  small  box  of 
Limoges  enamel  which  would  make  a  lovely 
jewel-case.  But,  good  gracious!  what  a  dwell- 
ing! And  we,  who  believe  ourselves  poor! 
Imagine  a  tiny  room  on  the  ground  floor,  badly 
paved,  whitewashed,  furnished  with  a  table  and 
four  chairs,  and  an  armchair  padded  with  straw, 
with  a  little  flat  cake  of  a  cushion  in  it,  stuffed, 
1  should  think,  with  j>earhstoi>est,  an*!  covered 
with  small  pieces  of  white  and  rrii  ^:jf*m  On 
tHe  tebJ*-  v>cire  three  or  four  i&r#**  («reek  and 
i**iin  lota*  Their  V*TC  ti*-  Fathers  of  the 
Churefcu  said  bdki*,,  **  *t*onjflrfe  h»i<ien,  I  came 
upon  Jm-U*.  tin  *»iiu*fct*i  11*;  WAS  very  at- 
tentr^™t^M»W^  ^'-  &W&*  &  $#fo«A#f  r<S*f  ..his 

.i-»7/»nn  '>T<iBJ  ->\t\  in  yllijT 

wretch.  -^  ptfMft  mt^M*  fftlse  mod- 

esty.    I  susp<$cted  he  had  had  a  romantic  story. 
I  soon  had  a  proof  of  it.     In  the  Byzantine 


THE  ABBE  AUBAIN  199 

casket  which  he  showed  us  there  was  a  faded 
bouquet  five  or  six  years  old  at  least.  "  Is  that 
a  relic? "  I  asked  him.  "  No,"  he  replied,  with 
some  agitation.  "  I  do  not  know  how  it  came 
there."  Then  he  took  the  bouquet  and  slipped 
it  carefully  in  his  table  drawer.  Is  that  clear 
enough?  I  went  back  to  the  chateau  saddened 
to  have  seen  such  poverty,  but  encouraged  to 
bear  my  own,  which,  beside  his,  seemed  of  oriental 
opulence.  You  should  have  seen  his  surprise 
when  Henry  gave  him  twenty  francs  for  a  wom- 
an whom  he  had  introduced  to  our  notice!  I 
really  must  make  him  a  present.  That  straw 
armchair  in  which  I  sat  is  far  too  hard.  I  will 
give  him  one  of  those  folding  iron  chairs  like 
that  which  I  took  to  Italy.  You  must  choose  me 
one,  and  send  it  to  me  as  soon  as  possible. 


LETTER  III 

The  same  to  the  same. 
NOIRMOUTIERS,     .     .     .     February,  1845. 

I  CERTAINLY  am  not  bored  at  Noirmoutiers. 
Besides,  I  have  found  an  interesting  occupation, 
and  I  owe  it  to  my  Abbe.  He  really  knows 
everything,  botany  included.  It  reminds  me  of 


200  THE  ABBE  AUBAIN 

Rousseau's  Letters  to  hear  the  Latin  name  for 
a  nasty  onion  I  laid  on  the  chimney-piece  for 
want  of  a  better  place.  '  You  know  botany, 
then?"  "Not  very  well,"  he  replied;  "just 
enough  to  teach  the  country  folk  the  herbs  which 
might  be  useful  to  them;  just  enough,  I  might 
say,  to  give  a  little  interest  to  my  solitary  walks." 
I  thought  at  once  that  it  would  be  very  amusing 
to  gather  pretty  flowers  in  my  walks,  to  dry 
them,  and  to  arrange  them  in  order  in  "  my  old 
Plutarch  tied  up  with  ribbons."  "  Do  teach  me 
botany,"  I  said  to  him.  He  wished  to  wait  until 
the  spring,  for  there  are  no  flowers  at  this  bad 
time  of  the  year.  "  But  you  have  some  dried 
flowers,"  I  said;  "I  saw  them  at  your  house." 
I  meant  to  refer  to  his  tenderly  preserved  old 
bouquet.  If  you  could  have  seen  his  face? 
.  Poor  wretched  man!  I  pretty  quickly 
repented  of  my  indiscreet  allusion.  To  make 
him  forget  it  I  hastened  to  tell  him  that  one 
ought  to  have  a  collection  of  dried  plants.  This 
is  called  a  herbarium.  He  agreed  at  once,  and 
the  very  next  day  he  brought  me  in  a  grey  paper 
parcel  several  pretty  plants,  each  with  its  own 
label.  The  course  of  botany  had  begun,  and  I 
made  astonishing  progress  from  the  very  first. 
But  I  had  no  idea  botany  was  so  immoral,  or  of 
the  difficulty  of  the  first  explanations,  above  all 


THE  ABBE  AUBAIN  201 

from  a  priest.  You  know,  my  dear,  plants  marry, 
just  as  we  do,  but  most  of  them  have  many  hus- 
bands. One  set  is  called  phanerogams,  if  I  have 
remembered  the  barbarous  name  properly.  It 
is  Greek,  and  means  to  marry  openly  at  the  town- 
hall.  Then  there  are  the  cryptogams — those  who 
marry  secretly.  The  mushrooms  that  you  eat 
marry  in  secret.  All  this  is  very  shocking,  but 
he  did  not  come  out  of  it  so  badly — better  than 
I  did,  who  had  the  silliness  to  shout  with  laughter, 
once  or  twice,  at  the  most  delicate  passages.  But 
I  have  become  cautious  now  and  I  do  not  put 
any  more  questions. 


LETTER  IV 

The  same  to  the  same. 
NOIRMOUTIERS,     .     .     .     February,  1845. 

You  must  be  burning  to  hear  the  story  of 
that  preciously  preserved  bouquet;  but,  the  fact 
is,  I  dare  not  ask  him  about  it.  In  the  first  place 
it  is  more  than  probable  that  there  is  no  story 
underneath ;  then,  if  there  is  one,  perhaps  it  would 
be  a  story  which  he  did  not  like  to  talk  about. 
As  for  me,  I  am  quite  convinced  that  . 
but  come,  don't  let  us  tell  fibs !  You  know  that  I 


202  THE  ABBE  AUBAIN 

can  not  keep  any  secrets  from  you.  I  know  this 
story,  and  I  will  tell  it  you  in  a  few  words ;  noth- 
ing easier.  "  How  did  it  come  about,  Monsieur 
1'Abbe,"  I  said  to  him  one  day,  "  that  with  your 
brains  and  education  you  resigned  yourself  to  be 
the  cure  of  a  little  village?  "  He  replied,  with  a 
sad  smile:  "  It  is  easier  to  be  the  pastor  of  poor 
peasants  than  of  townspeople.  Everyone  must 
cut  his  coat  according  to  his  cloth."  "  That  is 
why,"  said  I,  "  you  ought  to  be  in  a  better  posi- 
tion." "  I  was  once  told,"  he  went  on,  "  that 

your  uncle,  the  Bishop  of  N" ,  had  deigned 

to  notice  me  in  order  to  offer  me  the  cure  of 
Sainte  Marie;  it  is  the  best  in  the  diocese.  My 
old  aunt,  who  is  my  only  surviving  relative,  and 
who  lives  at  N ,  said  that  it  was  a  very  de- 
sirable position  for  me.  But  I  am  all  right  here, 
and  I  learnt  with  pleasure  that  the  bishop  had 
made  another  choice.  What  does  it  matter  to 
me?  Am  I  not  happy  at  Noirmoutiers?  If  I 
can  do  a  little  good  here  it  is  my  place;  I  ought 
not  to  leave  it.  Besides,  town  life  reminds  me. 
."  He  stopped,  his  eyes  became  sad  and 
dreamy,  then,  recovering  himself  suddenly,  he 
said,  '  We  are  not  working  at  our  botany. 
.  ,."  I  could  not  think  any  longer  of  the 
litter  of  old  hay  on  the  table,  and  I  continued 
my  questions.  "When  did  you  take  orders?" 


THE  ABBE  AUBAIN  203 

"  Nine  years  ago."  "  Nine  years  .  .  .  but 
surely  you  were  then  old  enough  to  be  established 
in  a  profession?  I  do  not  know,  but  I  have 
always  imagined  it  was  not  a  youthful  call  which 
led  you  to  the  priesthood."  "  Alas!  no,"  he  said, 
in  an  ashamed  manner;  "but  if  my  vocation 
came  late,  it  was  determined  by  causes  . 
by  a  cause  .  .  ."  He  became  embarrassed 
and  could  not  finish.  As  for  me,  I  plucked  up 
courage.  "  I  will  wager,"  I  said,  "  that  a  certain 
bouquet  which  I  have  seen  had  some  part  in  that 
determination."  Hardly  had  the  impertinent 
question  escaped  me  than  I  could  have  bitten 
out  my  tongue  rather  than  have  uttered  such  a 
thing,  but  it  was  too  late.  '  Why,  yes,  madam, 
that  is  true;  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it,  but  not 
to-day — another  time.  The  Angelus  is  about  to 
ring."  And  he  had  left  before  the  first  stroke 
of  the  bell.  I  expected  some  terrible  story.  He 
came  again  the  next  day,  and  he  himself  took  up 
the  conversation  of  the  previous  day.  He  con- 
fessed to  me  that  he  had  loved  a  young  person 

of  N ,  but  she  had  little  fortune,  and  he,  a 

student,  had  no  other  resources  besides  his  wits. 
He  said  to  her :  "  I  am  going  to  Paris,  where  I 
hope  to  obtain  an  opening;  you  will  not  forget 
me  while  I  am  working  day  and  night  to  make 
myself  worthy  of  you? "  The  young  lady  was 


204  THE  ABBE  AUBAIN 

sixteen  or  seventeen  years  old,  and  was  very  senti- 
mental. She  gave  him  her  bouquet  as  a  token 
of  faith.  A  year  after  he  heard  of  her  marriage 
with  the  lawyer  of  N just  when  he  had  ob- 
tained a  professorship  in  a  college.  He  was 
overwhelmed  by  the  blow,  and  renounced  the 
chair.  He  told  me  that  during  these  years  he 
could  not  think  of  anything  else,  and  he  seemed 
as  much  moved  whilst  reciting  this  simple  love 
story  as  though  it  had  only  just  happened.  Then 
he  took  the  bouquet  out  of  his  pocket.  "  It  was 
childish  of  me  to  keep  it,"  he  said,  "  perhaps  even 
it  was  wrong,"  and  he  threw  it  on  the  fire.  When 
the  poor  flowers  had  finished  crackling  and  blaz- 
ing, he  went  on  in  a  calmer  voice :  "  I  am  grate- 
ful to  you  for  having  asked  me  to  tell  this  story. 
I  have  to  thank  you  for  making  me  part  with 
a  souvenir  which  it  is  scarcely  suitable  I  should 
keep."  But  his  heart  was  full,  and  it  was  easy 
to  see  how  much  the  sacrifice  had  cost  him.  Poor 
priests!  what  a  life  is  theirs!  They  must  forbid 
themselves  the  most  innocent  thoughts,  and  must 
banish  from  their  hearts  every  feeling  which 
makes  the  happiness  of  other  men  .  .  .  even 
those  recollections  which  are  a  part  of  life  itself. 
Priests  remind  us  of  ourselves,  of  all  unfortunate 
women  to  whom  every  living  feeling  is  forbid- 
den as  criminal.  We  are  allowed  to  suffer,  but 


THE  ABBE  AUBAIN  205 

even  in  that  we  must  hide  our  pain.  Good-bye, 
I  reproach  myself  for  my  ill-advised  curiosity, 
but  it  was  indulged  in  on  your  behalf. 

(We  omit  here  several  letters  which  do  not  contain  any 
reference  to  the  Abbe  Aubain.) 


LETTER  V 

The  same  to  the  same. 
NOIRMOUTIERS,     .     .     .     May,  1845. 

I  HAVE  meant  to  write  to  you  for  a  long 
time,  my  dear  Sophie,  but  have  always  been  kept 
back  by  a  feeling  of  shame.  What  I  want  to 
tell  you  is  so  strange,  so  ridiculous  and,  withal, 
so  sad,  that  I  scarcely  know  whether  you  will  be 
moved  to  tears  or  to  laughter.  I  am  still  at  a 
loss  to  understand  it  myself.  But  I  will  come 
to  the  facts  without  more  beating  about  the  bush. 
I  have  mentioned  the  Abbe  Aubain  to  you  several 
times  in  my  previous  letters:  he  is  the  cure  of 
our  village,  Noirmoutiers.  I  also  told  you  the 
story  which  led  to  his  entering  into  the  priest- 
hood. Living  away  from  everybody,  and  my 
mind  full  of  those  melancholy  thoughts  which 
you  know  trouble  me,  the  companionship  of  a 
clever,  cultivated  and  agreeable  man  was  ex- 


206 

tremely  congenial  to  me.  Very  likely  I  let  him 
see  that  he  interested  me,  for,  in  a  very  short 
time,  he  came  to  our  house  as  though  he  were  an 
old  friend.  I  admit  it  was  quite  a  novel  pleasure 
to  me  to  talk  with  a  man  of  cultured  mind.  The 
ignorance  of  the  world  did  but  enhance  his  in- 
tellectual distinction.  Perhaps,  too — for  I  must 
tell  you  everything;  I  do  not  wish  to  hide  from 
you  any  little  failings  of  my  character — per- 
haps, too,  the  naivete  of  my  coquetry  (to  use 
your  own  expression),  for  which  you  have  often 
scolded  me,  has  been  at  work  unconsciously.  I 
love  to  be  pleasant  to  people  who  please  me,  and 
I  want  to  be  liked  by  those  whom  I  like.  .  .  . 
I  see  you  open  your  eyes  wide  at  this  discourse, 
and  I  think  I  can  hear  you  exclaim  "Julie!" 
Don't  be  anxious;  I  am  too  old  to  be  silly.  But 
to  continue.  A  degree  of  intimacy  has  sprung 
up  between  us  without — let  me  hasten  to  say—- 
anything either  having  been  said  or  done  in- 
consistent with  his  sacred  calling.  He  is  very 
happy  in  my  society.  We  often  talk  of  his 
earlier  days,  and  more  than  once  my  evil  genius 
has  prompted  me  to  bring  up  the  subject  of  that 
romantic  attachment  which  cost  him  a  bouquet 
(now  lying  in  ashes  on  my  hearth)  and  the 
gloomy  cassock  he  wears.  It  was  not  difficult 
to  see  that  he  thought  of  his  faithless  mistress 


THE  ABBE  AUBAIN  207 

less  often.  One  day  he  met  her  in  the  town,  and 
even  spoke  to  her.  He  told  me  all  about  it  on 
his  return,  and  added  quite  calmly  that  she  was 
happy  and  had  several  charming  children.  He 
saw,  by  chance,  some  of  Henry's  fits  of  temper; 
hence  ensued  almost  unavoidable  confidences 
from  my  side,  and  on  his  increased  sympathy. 
He  understood  my  husband  as  though  he  had 
known  him  for  a  matter  of  ten  years.  Further- 
more, his  advice  was  as  wise  as  yours,  and  more 
impartial,  for  you  always  hold  that  both  sides 
are  in  the  wrong.  He  always  thinks  I  am  in  the 
right,  but  at  the  same  time  recommends  prudence 
and  tact.  In  short,  he  proves  himself  a  devoted 
friend.  There  is  something  almost  feminine 
about  him  which  captivates  me.  His  disposition 
reminds  me  of  yours:  it  is  great-minded  and 
strong,  sensitive  and  reserved,  with  an  exagger- 
ated sense  of  duty.  ...  I  jostle  my  words 
together  one  on  top  of  the  other  in  order  to  delay 
what  I  want  to  tell  you.  I  can  not  speak  openly ; 
this  paper  frightens  me.  If  only  I  had  you  in 
the  fireside  corner,  with  a  little  frame  between 
us,  embroidering  the  same  piece  of  work!  But 
at  length,  at  length,  Sophie,  I  must  tell  you  the 
real  truth.  The  poor  fellow  is  in  love  with  me. 
You  may  Jaugh,  or  perhaps  you  are  shocked? 
I  wish  I  could  see  you  just  now.  He  has  not 


208  THE  ABBE  AUBAIN 

of  course  said  a  word  to  me,  but  those  large 
dark  eyes  of  his  can  not  lie.  .  .  ,„  At  these 
words  I  believe  you  will  laugh.  What  wonder- 
ful eyes  those  are  which  speak  unconsciously!  I 
have  seen  any  number  of  men  try  to  make  theirs 
expressive  who  only  managed  to  look  idiotic.  I 
must  confess  that  my  bad  angel  almost  rejoiced 
at  first  over  this  unlucky  state  of  things.  To 
make  a  conquest — such  a  harmless  conquest  as 
this  one — at  my  age !  It  is  something  to  be  able 
to  excite  such  a  feeling,  such  an  impossible  pas- 
sion! .  .  .  But  shame  on  me!  This  vile 
feeling  soon  passed  away.  I  said  to  myself  I 
have  done  wrong  to  a  worthy  man  by  my  thought- 
less conduct.  It  is  dreadful;  I  must  put  a  stop 
to  it  immediately.  I  racked  my  brains  to  think 
how  I  could  send  him  away.  One  day  we  were 
walking  together  on  the  beach  at  low  tide;  he 
did  not  dare  to  utter  one  word,  and  I  was  equally 
embarrassed.  Five  moments  of  deadly  silence 
followed,  during  which  I  picked  up  shells  to 
cover  my  confusion.  At  last  I  said  to  him,  "  My 
dear  Abbe,  you  must  certainly  have  a  better  liv- 
ing than  this.  I  shall  write  to  my  uncle  the 
bishop ;  I  will  go  to  see  him  if  necessary."  "Leave 
Noirmoutiers !  "  he  exclaimed,  clasping  his  hands. 
"But  I  am  so  happy  here!  What  more  can  I 
desire  while  you  are  here?  You  have  over- 


THE  ABBE  AUBAIN  209 

whelmed  me  with  good  things,  and  my  little 
house  has  become  a  palace."  "  No,"  I  replied, 
"  my  uncle  is  very  old;  if  I  had  the  misfortune 
to  lose  him  I  should  not  know  whom  to  address 
to  obtain  a  suitable  post."  "  Alas  I  madam,  I 
should  be  very  sorry  to  leave  this  village !  .  .  . 
The  cure  de  Sainte  Marie  is  dead,  .  .  .  but 
I  am  not  troubled,  because  I  believe  he  will  be 
replaced  by  the  Abbe  Raton,  who  is  a  most  excel- 
lent priest.  I  am  delighted  with  his  appoint- 
ment, for  if  Monseigneur  had  thought  of 
me- 

'  The  cure  de  Sainte  Marie  is  dead ! "  I  cried. 
"  I  will  go  to  my  uncle  at  N to-day." 

"  Ah,  madam,  do  nothing  in  the  matter.  The 
Abbe  Raton  is  much  better  fitted  for  it  than  I; 
and,  then,  to  leave  Noirmoutiers !  .  .  ." 

"  Monsieur  1'Abbe,"  I  said  resolutely,  "  you 
must!  "  At  these  words  he  lowered  his  head  and 
did  not  venture  to  oppose.  I  nearly  ran  back  to 
the  chateau.  He  followed  me  a  couple  of  paces 
behind,  poor  man,  too  much  upset  to  open  his 
mouth.  He  was  quite  crushed.  I  did  not  lose  a 
minute.  By  eight  o'clock  I  was  at  my  uncle's 
house.  I  found  him  very  much  prejudiced  in 
favour  of  his  Raton;  but  he  is  fond  of  me,  and 
I  know  my  power.  At  length,  after  a  long  dis- 
cussion, I  got  my  way.  Raton  is  cast  aside,  and 


n 

210  THE  ABBE  AUBAIN 

the  Abbe  Aubain  is  cure  of  Sainte  Marie.  He 
has  been  at  the  town  for  two  days.  The  poor  fel- 
low understood  my  "  You  must."  He  thanked 
me  seriously,  but  spoke  of  nothing  beyond  his 
gratitude.  I  am  grateful  to  him  for  leaving 
Noirmoutiers  so  soon,  and  for  telling  me  even 
that  he  was  in  haste  to  go  and  thank  Monseig- 
neur.  He  sent  me  at  parting  his  pretty  Byzan- 
tine casket,  and  asked  permission  to  write  to  me 
sometimes.  Ah,  well,  my  dear.  Are  you  satis- 
fied, Coucy?  This  is  a  lesson  which  I  shall  not 
forget  when  I  get  back  into  the  world.  But  then 
I  shall  be  thirty-three,  and  shall  hardly  expect 
to  be  admired  .  .  .  and  with  such  devotion 
as  his!  .  .  .  Truly,  that  would  be  out  of  the 
question.  Never  mind,  from  the  ruins  of  all 
this  folly  I  save  a  pretty  casket  and  a  true  friend. 
When  I  am  forty,  and  a  grandmother,  I  will 
plot  to  obtain  the  Abbe  Aubain  a  living  in  Paris. 
Some  day  you  will  see  this  come  to  pass,  my  dear, 
and  he  will  give  your  daughter  her  first  com- 
munion. 


THE  ABBE  AUBAIN  211 


LETTER  VI 

The  Abbe1  Aubaln  to  the  Abbe  Bruneau,  Professor 
of  Theology  at  Saint  A . 

N ,  May,  1845. 

MY  DEAE  PROFESSOR, — It  is  the  cure  of 
Sainte  Marie  who  is  writing  to  you,  not  any 
longer  the  humble,  officiating  priest  of  Noir- 
moutiers.  I  have  left  my  solitary  marshes  and 
behold  me  a  citizen,  installed  in  a  fine  living,  in 
the  best  street  in  N ;  cure  of  a  large,  well- 
built  church,  well  kept  up,  of  splendid  architec- 
ture, depicted  in  every  album  in  France.  The 
first  time  that  I  said  Mass  before  a  marble  altar, 
which  glittered  with  gilding,  I  had  to  ask  myself 
if  I  really  were  myself.  But  it  is  true  enough, 
and  one  of  my  delights  is  the  hope  that  at  the 
next  vacation  you  will  come  and  pay  me  a  visit. 
I  shall  have  a  comfortable  room  to  offer  you,  and 
a  good  bed,  not  to  mention  some  bordeaux,  which 
I  call  my  bordeaux  of  Noirmoutiers ;  and  I  ven- 
ture to  say  it  is  worth  your  acceptance.  But, 
you  ask  me,  how  did  you  get  from  Noirmoutiers 


212  THE  ABBE  AUBAIN 

to  Sainte  Marie?  You  left  me  at  the  entrance 
to  the  nave,  you  find  me  now  at  the  steeple. 

O  Meliboee  deus  nobis  haec  otia  fecit. 

Providence,  my  dear  Professor,  sent  a  grand 
lady  from  Paris  to  Noirmoutiers.  Misfortunes 
of  a  kind  we  shall  never  know  had  temporarily 
reduced  them  to  an  income  of  10,000  crowns  per 
annum.  She  is  an  agreeable  and  good  woman, 
unfortunately  a  bit  jaded  by  frivolous  reading, 
and  by  association  with  the  dandies  of  the  capital. 
Bored  to  death  by  a  husband  with  whom  she 
has  little  in  common,  she  did  me  the  honour 
of  becoming  interested  in  me.  There  were 
endless  presents  and  continual  invitations,  then 
every  day  some  fresh  scheme  in  which  I  was 
wanted.  "  M.  1'Abbe,  I  want  to  learn  Latin. 
.  .  .  M.  1'Abbe,  I  want  to  be  taught  botany." 
Horresco  referens,  did  she  not  also  desire  that  I 
should  expound  theology  to  her?  What  would 
you  have,  my  dear  Professor?  In  fact,  to  quench 
such  thirst  for  knowledge  would  have  required 

all  the  professors  of  Saint  A .    Fortunately, 

such  whims  never  last  long :  the  course  of  studies 
rarely  lasted  beyond  the  third  lesson.  When  I 
told  her  that  the  Latin  for  rose  was  rosa,  she 
exclaimed,  "  What  a  well  of  learning  you  are, 
M.  1'Abbe!  How  could  you  allow  yourself  to 


THE  ABBE  AUBAIN  213 

be  buried  at  Noirmoutiers? "  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  my  dear  Professor,  the  good  lady,  through 
reading  the  silly  books  that  are  produced  nowa- 
days, got  all  sorts  of  queer  ideas  into  her  head. 
One  day  she  lent  me  a  book  which  she  had  just 
received  from  Paris,  and  which  enraptured  her. 
Abelard,  by  M.  de  Remusat.  Doubtless  you 
have  read  it,  and  admired  the  learned  research 
made  by  the  author,  unfortunately  in  so  wrong 
a  spirit.  At  first  I  skipped  to  the  second  volume, 
containing  the  "  Philosophy  of  Abelard,"  and, 
after  reading  that  with  the  greatest  interest,  I 
returned  to  the  first,  to  the  life  of  the  great 
heresiarch.  This,  of  course,  was  all  madam  had 
deigned  to  read.  That,  my  dear  Professor, 
opened  my  eyes.  I  realised  that  there  was  dan- 
ger in  the  society  of  fine  ladies  enamoured  of 
learning.  This  one  of  Noirmoutiers  could  give 
points  to  Heloi'se  in  the  matter  of  infatuation. 
This,  to  me,  extremely  novel  situation  was  troub- 
ling me  much,  when,  suddenly,  she  said  to  me, 
"  M.  1'Abbe,  the  incumbent  of  Sainte  Marie  is 
dead,  and  I  want  you  to  have  the  living.  You 
must"  Immediately  she  drove  off  in  her  car- 
riage to  see  Monseigneur;  and,  a  few  days  later, 
I  was  cure  of  Sainte  Marie,  somewhat  ashamed 
of  having  obtained  the  living  by  favour,  but  in 
other  respects  delighted  to  be  far  away  from 


214,  THE  ABBE  AUBAIN 

the  toils  of  a  lioness  of  the  capital.  A  lioness, 
my  dear  Professor,  is  the  Parisian  expression  for 
a  woman  of  fashion. 

fi  Zev,  ywcuKutv  aiiov  &ira(ras  yeKOS.* 

Ought  I  to  have  rejected  this  good  fortune 
in  order  to  defy  the  temptation?  What  non- 
sense! Did  not  St.  Thomas  of  Canterbury  ac- 
cept castles  from  Henry  II.?  Good-bye,  my 
dear  Professor,  I  look  forward  to  discussing 
philosophy  with  you  in  a  few  months'  time,  each 
of  us  in  a  comfortable  armchair,  before  a  plump 
chicken  and  a  bottle  of  bordeaux,  more  philoso- 
phorum.  Vae  let  me  ama. 

*  A  line  taken,  I  believe,  from  the  Seven  Against  Thebes,  of  JEs- 
chylus,  "  O  Jupiter !  women  !  .  .  .  what  a  race  thou  hast  given 
us  ! "  The  Abbe  Aubain  and  his  Professor,  the  Abbe  Bruneau,  are 
good  classical  scholars. 


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